For Whom The Bell Tolls
by makeyafamous
Summary: Sam and Dean must perform another exorcism on a young, Southern waitress's sister, but things don't go as planned.
1. Chapter One

Hey guys. This is my first _Supernatural_ fic, I hope you enjoy. Please read and review, but no flames cuz I just don't like those. ;

**CHAPTER ONE**

"What's this place called?" Sam Winchester asked his brother, Dean, who had been driving throughout the night. Dean didn't particularly enjoy being on the road so long without sleep, but he preferred the night. His younger brother had slept the better part of the early morning, which was the reasoning behind his inquiry.

"We have just entered the lovely town of Ryan's Bluff, Tennessee," Dean replied, unwontedly yawning as he slowed the Chevy to a stop at a red light.

"I think we should stop here," Sam proposed, rubbing his face to wake himself up. "Get breakfast, get you a nap ..." Dean glanced at Sam acrimoniously, and Sam simply grinned brightly.

"If I lay down now, I'm out for at least a day," Dean breathed, passing under the green light.

"Well, we should get off the road for a few days anyway," Sam said. "One day, we'll get out of the car and we'll be two inches shorter. Not that anyone would notice if _you're_ shorter." Dean snapped his head to the right and sneered at his brother.

"Are you callin' me short?" he feigned offense. Sam snickered and gazed out his window, suddenly wondering if they would ever find their father or the _thing_ that killed Jessica.

Dean pulled the Impala into the small parking lot of an even smaller diner. _Tiny's__ Café_, the sign above said. Dean turned off the ignition, laid back in his seat, and yawned again.

"Are you sure you want to eat first?" Sam asked, "'Cause, you know, you kind of smell." Dean eyed his brother with indignation prior to climbing out of the car and heading inside. Sam trailed behind and sat in front of him.

The café was filled with locals, mostly wearing comfortable, thin clothing to atone for the heat outside. They all looked like wholesome, hard-working people, and they all seemed to know one another.

"No, wait a minute," Dean said, sticking his nose in the air. "I think it's _you_ that smells." Sam's eyebrows stitched together and he casually lifted his tee-shirt to his nose, inhaling deeply.

"Do not," he argued, dropping his shirt. Dean laughed heartily.

"Made you smell yourself, though," he chuckled, pointing at him.

"Hi, can I help you?" a joyous Southern accent welcomed them. Sam and Dean looked up to a short, very petite young woman with a red-and-white checkered apron tied around her waist. Her hair was an unusual white color, her eyes were sparkling emeralds, and her skin had a healthy tan.

"I certainly hope so," Dean beamed, quickly laying his charm on this cute waitress. Sam glanced sideways at his older sibling and kicked him directly in the shin. Dean growled in pain, his enchanting smile faltering briefly, but he successfully recovered before the waitress even noticed.

"Do you have any specials?" Sam requested, hoping to make her feel more at ease with them, and not just chalk them up to the same perverted non-locals she probably served everyday. Instead, something peculiar happened: she looked up at them and flat-out stared at Sam for a moment and then did the same to Dean.

"Is ... something wrong?" Dean queried, gazing closely at her with narrowed eyes. She jumped out of her odd reverie, immensely embarrassed, and fished her notepad and pen out of her apron.

"I'm-I'm sorry," she stuttered, visibly shaken, and she went on to struggle through the specials that Sam had asked about. Sam and Dean ordered the cheapest breakfasts.

"Well, that was weird," Sam muttered.

"She wants me," Dean said, watching her walk away. Sam rolled his eyes.

"I think it was something else," he stated. When his older brother paid him no attention, Sam maneuvered his head directly in Dean's line of sight of the platinum-haired waitress.

"What?" Dean growled. "You know, I'm starting to question your sexuality, little brother." The highly offended and furious expression which crossed Sam's face alerted Dean that he'd crossed the line with his sarcasm, and he immediately back-paddled. "I'm sorry ..." Sam shook his head and put up his hand to stop Dean from continuing.

"Don't worry about it," Sam dismissed.

"All right then," Dean sighed, sipping his water the waitress had brought when she'd first visited their table. "What were you babbling about?"

"She was staring," Sam said. Dean's eyebrows rose and he motioned for Sam to continue. "It was like ... I don't know ... like she knew us or something."

"Yeah ..." Dean said slowly. "Or ... maybe she wanted _both_ of us." Sam groaned and scratched the back of his head.

"Sometimes, Dean, I really think ..." he began.

"Stop," Dean commanded.

The little blonde waitress served their food just as nervously as she'd spoken to them earlier. But this time, neither Dean nor Sam said anything to make it worse for her. Dean also noticed what his brother had; her jitteriness had been caused by something that went far beyond infatuation. The brothers couldn't determine what bothered her.

"Think she knows who we are?" Dean asked, finishing his meal and glass of water.

"How would that be possible?" Sam wondered, sitting back in his chair.

"I don't know, but it's the only thing I can come up with," Dean resolved.

"Maybe she knows Dad," Sam offered. Dean looked across the table at his little brother, finding he never ceased to amaze him. He pointed at him, nodding his head, and the waitress approached.

"Can I get you guys anything else?" she asked. Her voice was so sweet and kind while combined with the native Southern twang, and Dean tried to recall ever dating a woman who had such an accent.

"I think the check will do just fine," Dean grinned. She returned the smile and pulled the check from her apron, laying it directly in front of him, letting her hand linger on it longer than normal.

"Thanks for coming," she whispered. "Have a nice day." She smiled shortly at Sam and walked away. This time Sam watched her leave rather than Dean, who was looking over the check.

"That was an odd waitress," he remarked, turning back to Dean.

"I don't think so," Dean admitted, handing Sam the check. He was surprised to find a note written on the back.

_Please meet me back here at five when my shift ends_, it said, _I need your help_. Sam's eyes shot up to Dean.

"So she does know Dad," he determined. Dean nodded.

"Unless I met her on another one of my famous drunken journeys to ..."

"Ryan's Bluff."

"Ryan's Bluff, Tennessee."


	2. Chapter Two

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the reviews, guys! Love you all!

**Angelite:** Dean's comment about drunken journeys was just a joke. Lol. Sorry, I should have made that more clear.

**Anywbshowslover:** I have no idea what killed Jessica, but I can't wait to find out.

Enjoy:)

**CHAPTER TWO**

Sam and Dean awaited the young waitress at the specified time given in the note outside _Tiny's Café_, leaning against the hood of Dean's Impala. They were newcomers to Ryan's Bluff, strangers, and everybody that passed by knew it, so they stared accordingly.

"What do you think she wants?" Sam asked, politely smiling at the locals even though he felt increasingly out of place.

"I don't know," Dean answered, not reacting as kindly to the stares as his brother was. "Help, I think." Sam rolled his eyes.

"You know what I mean," he said, glancing at Dean. Dean shrugged.

"I don't know, Sam," he sighed. "My ears are starting to burn, though. You get the feeling that we're not wanted?" Sam nodded, looking around.

"I get that feeling a lot of places we go," he confessed.

Their conversation was halted when the waitress marched out of the diner in the same ripped jeans and tight white shirt tucked in. She ran her fingers through her alabaster hair and slipped on a pair of aviator sunglasses. She spotted the brothers, slowed her steps as if surprised to see them, and then headed over to them. Dean watched enslaved as her hair flew behind her, her hips swayed rhythmically, and her tongue licked her lips.

"I didn't expect you to stay," she spoke first, lifting the sunglasses to the top of her head. "But I should've known John wouldn't let me down." Sam and Dean shared a look.

"John?" Dean asked, although he was unquestionably sure he knew whom she was speaking of. She turned to him and her shimmering green eyes shot through him in ways he'd never known.

"John Winchester," she clarified. "Your father." Dean stood from the car, finding he was a considerable amount taller than her and wishing he could laugh in Sam's face about the height comment he'd made earlier.

"You certainly have our attention," Dean said, motioning to Sam. She nodded.

"He said you could help me," she explained. "He-he wanted to help us himself, but he said he had an emergency and to call you." She looked at Dean, and he nodded in understanding.

"But you didn't call," Sam pointed out. Her eyes turned their attention to him and she smiled.

"No," she shook her head. "I ... lost the number." Dean's eyes narrowed.

"If we're going to help you, you need to be honest with us," he told her sincerely. She looked down, licked her pink lips, and nodded in defeat. When she looked up again, the pain and torment finally shown on her tired face.

"Can you ... give me a lift home?" she inquired. Dean nodded.

"What's your name?" he asked. She smiled faintly.

"Janelle," she replied, extending her hand to him. He shook it.

"Dean." She nodded.

"I know. John told me a lot about you," she said, turning to Sam. "And you're ... Sam, right?" They shook hands as well. "The resemblance ... is uncanny." Sam's eyebrows arched. "You look just like him." Sam smiled quickly.

"Are we ready to go?" he wondered, glancing at Dean. The brothers were well aware that neither of them looked anything like their father, but they kept this information to themselves. Without waiting for a response, Sam brushed passed Dean and slipped into the passenger seat. Dean looked at Janelle and pulled open the back door for her.

"Shall we?" he breathed.

Janelle directed Dean where to go as they headed for her home. She hesitated in explaining what she needed their assistance with, but she forced herself to get on with it.

"It's my sister," she began, gazing out the window from behind Sam. "She has these ... episodes. They're like seizures, only ... worse." Dean glanced at her through the rearview mirror, seeing the pain cross her face again. "She was diagnosed with epilepsy. I accepted it and that's why I didn't call you."

"You accepted it, but you don't believe it," Sam said. Janelle looked at the back of his head.

"No," she admitted, "I don't think it's epilepsy."

"What do you think it is?" Dean inquired. Her eyes went to him.

"That's what I need your help with," she said.

"What happens during the episodes?" Sam asked. Janelle chuckled nervously.

"The question is what _doesn't_ happen during the episodes," she said. "Sometimes she screams, sometimes she won't eat, sometimes she tries to kill herself ..." Dean sighed and switched hands on the wheel. "And sometimes she tries to kill us."

"Sounds like demonic possession to me," Sam offered quietly. Dean agreed.

"Why isn't she locked up or in the hospital for tests?" Dean asked. Janelle glared at him.

"She's my _sister_," she growled.

"We'll check it out for you," Sam intervened. "See what we can do."

The rest of the ride was silent until Janelle instructed Dean to make a left and keep driving until there was no more road left. Minutes later, Dean slowed the Chevy to a stop at the very last house on Stonyridge Lane. A quaint two-story home painted a warm yellow with black shudders, and flowers in the yard. Dean and Sam were out of the car before Janelle, who was taking advantage of this moment to prepare herself for another unpredictable night at home.

"Shazam," Dean mumbled.

"Welcome to Mayberry," Sam joked. Janelle finally got out and led them to the door. As she opened it, Dean's eyes snuck a peek at Janelle's body, which didn't go unnoticed by Sam, who slapped his brother's arm.

"Dad! Julie!" Janelle hollered. She hurried away to find the people she'd yelled for, telling Sam and Dean to make themselves at home. The brothers did just that as they inspected their surroundings.

"Did you notice she lost the accent?" Dean asked. Sam nodded, looking closely at a miniature tea set on the mantle above the fireplace.

"Probably a tourist attraction," he said. "People come to a small town in the South; they want to hear the accent."

"Sam, Dean," Janelle said, presenting herself with an older homely man. "This is my father, Spencer." The men shook hands.

"You look a lot like John," Spencer commented, looking at Sam. Sam nodded. "So ... you can help my daughter?" he asked hopefully. Dean tried his best to smile assuringly.

"We're certainly going to try," he said.

"Julie!" Spencer called. A door upstairs slammed and feet bounded down the staircase and stomped on the hardwood floor. Sam and Dean turned to her and were terribly surprised to find a mirror image of Janelle with brown hair. She had the same green eyes, same button nose, same full lips, same everything. Dean thought for a moment he was seeing things.

"Who are you?" she asked standoffishly. Same voice as Janelle, too, thought Sam.

"This is Sam and Dean Winchester," Janelle said. "They're here to help you." Julie rolled her eyes dramatically and shook her head.

"I don't need any help," she growled. She marched between Sam and Dean, passed her father and sister, and into the kitchen.

"She's a little rough around the edges," Janelle abashedly whispered.

"You're twins," Sam said.

"Actually I have three girls," Spencer said. "Triplets. But Jenna's at college."

"Would you mind if we talked to Julie alone?" Dean asked.

"Be my guest," Spencer said, motioning toward the kitchen. The brothers walked into the kitchen, finding Julie sitting at the table with a glass of water.

"I told you I don't need any help," she immediately said.

"Of course not," Dean said, taking it upon himself to sit down without an invitation. Sam leaned against the counter with crossed arms. "I mean, anyone would be happy to be diagnosed with epilepsy and live a lifetime of swallowing pills everyday." Julie glared hard at him and her jaw clenched.

"Did I _say_ I was happy to spend my life this way?" she asked through clenched teeth.

"Well, I just assumed," Dean said lightly, glancing at Sam, "Since you obviously don't want our help."

"What could you possibly do for me?" she wondered. The brothers shared another look.

"That all depends," Dean said, narrowing his eyes.

"On what?" she asked. Sam took a seat next to her, folding his arms on the table. He was more talented at appearing harmless than Dean was.

"On what exactly is ... inside of you," he said. Julie was evidently beginning to entertain the idea that something other than epilepsy was wrong with her. She'd thought the other man, John Winchester, who looked a lot like the man sitting next to her, had just been crazy, but now here were two more people believing her problem went deeper than epilepsy.

"All right," she said slowly. "And how do you ... find out?"

"There's a few different ways," Sam said quietly. "But first we need your permission to perform an exorcism if one is needed." She nodded.

"Okay, you have it," she said. "Go on."


	3. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

****

Speaking the word _Cristo_ or any form of the word God had no effect on Julie or the possible demon within, so Sam and Dean resorted to retrieving the holy water from the trunk of the Impala. Julie then made it known that she preferred Sam to commence any and all tests on her. It was apparent her reservations toward Dean ran deep, but why?

"Is it going to burn?" Julie asked pitifully. Sam looked at her sympathetically, nodding his head.

"If there is a possession and the entity _is_ from Hell," he explained. Julie took a deep breath and gave him permission to proceed.

"What does it mean, being possessed?" she asked nervously. "I mean ... did I do something wrong?" Sam shook his head.

"No," he answered, looking her straight in the eyes. "None of this is your fault. Sometimes demons think they can become human again through possession; sometimes they just want to do evil. It has nothing to do with the people they possess."

Meanwhile, Dean and Janelle sat on the sofa in the living room across from Spencer in the recliner. Silence engulfed the room as there wasn't much to talk about except what was going on in the kitchen, and nobody cared to discuss this. Dean, however, noticed how wonderfully Janelle smelled. Like some exotic perfume.

"Have you heard from your sister?" Spencer broke the deafening silence. Janelle looked up at him, knowing he was referring to Jenna, who was living in another state while she attended college in the medical field.

"No," she replied quietly. "But she said she'd be busy this week with exams."

Suddenly a scream filtered throughout the entire house. It was Julie, but there were several volumes to it; a low octave usually associated with a male, and a high pitch that was more feminine. Dean closed his eyes, knowing the meaning behind it.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, his call full of stress and fear. A dish broke behind the swinging kitchen door, and Dean jumped up.

"Stay here!" he commanded of Janelle and Spencer, who were ready to follow him into the kitchen. Janelle wasn't about to listen, but Spencer held her back for fear of losing another child.

Dean kicked through the door to the kitchen and found Julie had Sam shoved against a wall, her hand on his neck and his feet dangling near the floor. Dean hurried to his brother's aid, yanking the much-smaller woman back, but her grip on Sam's neck only tightened. He stared into her blood red eyes as she cackled at his pain and her power over him.

With his arm tight around Julie's neck, Dean reached for the bottle of holy water behind him on the table. Just as his fingers brushed the edge of it, Julie's free hand claimed his neck and she threw him against the wall next to his brother. Sam and Dean tried their hardest to peel her hands off their necks, but she was powerful beyond that of any human.

"It's not ..!" Sam shouted.

"Julie!" The brothers' eyes slid sideways to see Janelle in the doorway. Julie suddenly dropped Sam and Dean and then passed out, falling hard to the floor. The men rubbed their aching necks and coughed to clear their throats. Sam unknowingly leaned against his older sibling with eyes closed, allowing the fear to withdraw its grip on him.

"It's not just a demon," Sam repeated, moving to stand up. "It's _the_ demon." Dean knew immediately who his brother spoke of, and Sam pulled him to his feet.

"How do you know it's _him_?" Dean asked, taking a deep breath before scooping Julie's lifeless body into his arms. As Janelle led him to her sister's room, Sam followed closely.

"He told me," he replied, still in pain. "There's only one demon I know of that's been around for thousands of years and hasn't been able to completely take over a human yet." Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. Did Sam always have to explain everything in such ridiculous detail?

"All right, all right," he mumbled. Janelle opened Julie's door, and Dean carefully maneuvered through the room, laying the possessed woman on her bed. Dean finally took a moment to catch his breath and enjoy the pain in his neck.

"What happens next?" Janelle asked. The brothers looked at her and ushered her out of Julie's bedroom. "Actually, scratch that, tell me what the hell's going on." Dean closed the bedroom door and leaned against it.

"Your sister is possessed," Sam informed her. "By, basically, the Judas of the demon world." Janelle stared at him, waiting for more explanation. "This demon has been around the world looking for the perfect soul, the perfect ... host."

"Why?" Janelle whispered. She seemed to be handling the news fairly well, but Dean wasn't sure it had completely hit her yet.

"If it found someone strong enough, it would be able to channel all the evil in Hell onto Earth," Dean said. "Creating a sort of ... Hell on Earth, if you will."

"The end of the world?" Janelle asked angrily. She was furious that this demon had chosen her sister, who had never done one ill thing to another person in her life. Julie didn't deserve what was happening to her.

"Not exactly," Dean said. "But close enough." Janelle gulped, inhaled long and hard, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"All right then," she exhaled, glancing up at Sam and Dean. "What can you do for her?" The siblings shared a concerned look that Janelle caught. "Please, _please_ tell me you can help her."

"We're going to help her," Sam told her sincerely, gaining an odd gaze from Dean, who was quite unsure of how to help Julie. The girl's possession surpassed that of any other since there wasn't just any demon inside of her; they were dealing with Elathan – the demon from the Underworld who was most feared right after Lucifer himself. "It's just ... going to take some time."

"What do you mean?" Janelle ordered. "I want that thing out of my sister! Now!"

"Calm down," Sam gently said.

"Look," Dean started, irritated with this wasting of time. "Normally, all it would take for any other demon is an exorcism and some holy water, but this isn't just _some_ demon."

"You're going to have to have a lot of patience with us," Sam explained. Janelle hated what she was hearing, but she had to trust them as they knew far more about this stuff than she did.

"Fine," she sighed, wiping her eyes before tears could fall. "So what now?"

"We'll need to talk to both you and your father," Sam said. It was times like this when Dean admired his brother the most for knowing precisely what to say at the right moment. Had it only been Dean in the situation, he would have locked Julie in a room, and continued at his own pace.

When Sam and Dean were sitting in front of Spencer and the only daughter he had to hold on to at the moment, even Sam faltered at his explanation. He hated having to tell them that it was very possible Julie could die during the possession and possibly even the exorcism, that she could remain in a vegetative state after the demon was expelled, that she may experience post-traumatic stress syndrome, and that there was only a very little chance she would walk away unscathed. But Sam illustrated everything as best he could and assured them Julie would be fine.

"Will it be very painful for her?" Spencer questioned sadly. He'd been in denial for quite a while that anything other than epilepsy was wrong with Julie, the youngest of the triplets by little more than six minutes, but John Winchester had been very trustworthy and now his sons wanted to put all their energy into helping Julie.

"A lot of it will be painful for her, yeah," Dean answered truthfully. "But it's worth it. When she comes out of it, she won't remember anything." Spencer smiled briefly.

"You sound very confident," he said. Dean grinned proudly and nodded.

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"But I don't understand why it's going to take so long," Janelle said exasperatedly, referring to Sam's estimate of a week just to pull of a full exorcism.

"It might not take that long," Sam said. "A week is as long as it _could_ take." Spencer hugged Janelle closer and kissed her temple. She could almost feel the grief emanating from him.

"Well, do whatever it takes," Spencer sighed. "We'll pay you anything ..."

"That's not necessary," Sam refused, holding his hand up. "But we will have to ask that you ... stay out of the room when we're working. There's a lot of things you wouldn't want to see." Janelle and her father nodded in stipulation.

"Where are you staying?" Janelle asked.

"The Travel Lodge," Dean answered.

"You're more than welcome to stay here," Spencer proposed, and Janelle eyed her father wearily. She trusted Sam and Dean just as she'd relied on John Winchester, but they were still perfect strangers.

"We don't want to be any trouble," Dean said, standing. Sam stood as well, but disagreed.

"Might be a good idea," he said, and Dean looked at him. "Do you really trust them to stay here alone with a woman possessed by Elathan?" Dean complied, but he'd noted the look on Janelle's face.

"Well ..." he sighed. "If it's not going to be any trouble for you."

"Of course not!" Spencer exclaimed. "It's the least we can do!" He looked down at Janelle. "Right, Janie?"

"Sure," she nodded reluctantly. "I guess ... one of you can have Jenna's room and the other one can have my room. I'll sleep on the couch."

"No," Dean shook his head as well as his hand. "We'll sleep here in the living room if that's not a problem." Janelle quickly agreed to this idea, but she did offer to bring them pillows and blankets. She also asked if they'd eaten and if they were hungry. They refused.

"This isn't as easy as you think it will be." Everybody jumped and spun around to face Julie, who was standing near the bottom of the staircase. Sam went for the holy water in his jacket.

"Don't," Julie warned, her eyes wide and glued to the floor, but her long finger was aimed at Sam. "I've got my host all picked out." Janelle's jaw clenched; a demon with a sarcastic sense of humor? Elathan was speaking with Julie's voice, but her body was shaking wildly. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

Julie roared in mocking laughter and suddenly removed a knife from her back pocket and brought the blade to the palm of her hand. Sam and Dean lunged at her, knocking the knife away, but not before she made a long incision.

"We're going to have to tie her up," Dean resolved. Sam nodded.


	4. Chapter Four

_Thanks for the reviews! You guys are great!_

_As you can see, there was also a title change. "Last Train Out Of My Heart" was rather cheesy and pretentious, so I changed it._

****

**CHAPTER FOUR**

****

Julie slept away the remainder of the day, giving Dean ample time to securely tie her to her bed. She'd be upset like anyone in her position, but neither Sam nor Dean saw any other option to keep Julie from harming herself or her family or them.

Around midnight, Janelle sat up in bed, sighing with frustration. She couldn't close her eyes without seeing Julie cut into the palm of her hand, but she needed to sleep because she would be working breakfast and lunch at the diner the next day. Janelle also knew the bathroom downstairs was packed with painkillers and sleeping agents, only she didn't know which brother would be in the living room and which was standing guard over her sister. She wasn't afraid of waking them; she was afraid of being confronted with awkward conversation.

Another fifteen minutes of no sleep passed by and Janelle could take no more. She jumped out of bed in her shorts and her father's old hockey jersey and stepped lightly down the stairs. The television emanated a blue hue throughout the black living room, illuminating the man on the couch: Sam, and he was sleeping soundly. He's so cute when he sleeps, Janelle thought, hurrying straight for the bathroom. She located the sleeping pills, swallowed two, and turned off the TV before making her way up to her room.

Stepping off the last stair, Janelle saw a person peeking into her room. Only his legs were visible as his upper body was leaning in the room, but Janelle knew who it was. She picked up her pace and nearly ran into Dean as he was coming out. He gasped and his eyes were huge, then he bit his knuckles to keep from screaming.

"Can I help you with something?" Janelle asked curiously. Dean was humiliated, but he was always quick to come up with an explanation for his actions.

"Just ... checkin' up on things, you know," he smiled awkwardly. Janelle nodded slowly.

"Right ... shouldn't you be _checking_ on my sister?" she demanded.

"Look, I'm sorry," Dean growled. "I saw your door open, I just wanted to make sure you were okay." He was telling the truth, and Janelle could see it in his eyes even in the dark hallway. She could see something else, too; some sort of a twinkle that blended well with his million dollar smile.

"Well, I'm fine," Janelle said coldly. "Thanks for your concern." She moved to enter her room as Dean headed back for Julie's, but Janelle spun around. "I'm sorry," she sighed, irritated with herself for being so rude to someone who'd volunteered to help her sister.

"It's all right," Dean smiled. "I understand."

"Can I get you anything?" He shook his head.

"Get some sleep, Janelle," he told her.

"Goodnight, Dean." She closed the door behind her and practically fell back into bed.

Dean Winchester was someone Janelle had never met before. All the men in Ryan's Bluff seemed to be made from the same mold: football players, Southern gentlemen, construction workers, a few cases of wife beaters, and law enforcement. But Dean and his little brother were a breath of fresh air, something the small town really needed. Sam was obviously the cuter and younger of the two, but Dean was the ruggedly handsome, smooth-talker type, and probably the trouble-maker as well. In addition, Janelle knew Dean was the ladies man; the looks he'd given her at the diner in the morning proved that to be true.

Janelle rolled over, pulled the blankets all around her, and actually smiled despite everything that was happening. She was very thankful for Sam and Dean Winchester, and even more thankful that they were easy on the eyes. She hated herself for thinking this way especially in light of Julie's problem. Did that make her a bad sister?

In Julie's room, Dean sat silently by the window in a rocking chair. A rocking chair that was a few hundred years old, Dean thought, and would probably break under his weight. Julie was either sleeping or unconscious, it didn't matter to Dean which as long as she was out. He tried to come up with a game plan of how he and Sam would exorcise this demon, but every time he tried, he kept thinking of Janelle; the gorgeous platinum blonde asleep just one room over. If he wasn't on a job, he would've put _his_ game into play. He sighed heavily and laid his head back.

"All work and no play makes Dean a dull boy," he mumbled, gazing up at the ceiling. Julie unexpectedly began to laugh, and only Dean's eyes moved in her direction.

"You're all going to die," she chuckled, moving against the restraints, but not fighting them. Probably testing their durability, thought Dean, bitterly.

"That so?" Dean asked, uninterested. She continued laughing and nodded her head.

"Wait and see," she said sweetly, childishly.

"I'll be here all night, sweetheart," Dean growled, looking back to the ceiling. Julie's upper body shot up into a sitting position with her arms pulled taut behind her by the ropes and duct tape. Dean hated that he and Sam were unprepared for Elathan's appearance and now they had to do research for an effective exorcism, which prolonged the demon's time in a possible permanent host.

"I can feel it," she muttered, staring downward with her hair cupping her face; a face so similar to Janelle's, but longer and more stressed.

"Julie?" Dean asked skeptically. He wasn't exactly the master at pointing out who was talking when a person was possessed. She looked at him and he saw the terror in her eyes.

"What is happening to me?" she breathed, tears streaking her cheeks. Dean took a deep breath, almost deciding on waking up Sam to do some more explaining, but he didn't. Sam needed his sleep, everybody knew that.

But Sam wasn't sleeping. Sam was dreaming.


	5. Chapter Five

**CHAPTER FIVE**

****

"We should probably get started tonight," Sam suggested. Dean nodded in agreement even though he was hardly listening. He and Sam had been planning their strategy all day while Spencer and Janelle worked and Julie was fast asleep. The brothers figured the demon within was lying dormant and keeping his host sedated while he devised his next scheme.

"Did you find anything in Dad's journal about Elathan?" Dean queried. Sam shook his head.

"Nothing," he said. "But I think I found an exorcism on the internet that'll work." Dean nodded again, but his eyes were fixed on a picture of all three girls on the wall above the television. Julie was the only brunette, so platinum was actually Janelle's natural hair color. "Dean?" Sam asked, trying to gain back his brother's attention.

"What?" Dean grumbled. "It's a good idea!" He stood from the kitchen table and pulled on his leather jacket, then took it off again once he remembered the odd heat wave Ryan's Bluff was under.

"Where are you going?" Sam squeaked.

"It's almost five," Dean grinned. "Think I'm gonna swing by the diner and see if Janelle wants a ride home." Sam sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Dean ..." he started.

"Relax," Dean interrupted. "It's just a ride home."

"So you're just gonna leave me here alone?" Sam demanded.

"Come on, Sam, you'll be fine," Dean coaxed. "Anything happens, just call my cell."

Dean jumped into the Impala and made his way back to _Tiny's__ Café_. His mind was on Janelle, when it should have been on Julie, in the jersey and shorts she'd slept in. Her hair had been messy, tangled, and her eyes were wide and tired, and Dean had to restrain himself from making a pass at her. He was amazingly attracted to her physically, but he knew nothing about her, which meant he couldn't get to know her for fear of eventually hitting on her. What a tangled web we weave, he thought.

"Hell," Dean muttered under his breath, sighing and lulling his head from side-to-side. He was in a tight spot that would last until he and Sam expelled Elathan from Julie's body.

Turning the car onto the main road where the diner was located, Dean immediately spotted Janelle's white hair bobbing in a ponytail. She was talking to some guy, and Dean noted the uncomfortable look on her face as he neared. She must have recognized the Chevy's engine because her eyes briefly met Dean's and relief washed over her face. She straightened up, though, so that the guy she was conversing with wouldn't know she wasn't interested in him.

"He shoots, he scores," Dean whispered, checking his mirrors before turning into the lane of oncoming traffic so he could pull up to the curb next to Janelle. "Hey, babe!" he yelled, grinning brilliantly and brandishing his gorgeous white teeth. "Ready to go?" Janelle smiled and sighed happily.

"Yeah, Dean, I'm ready," she said. The nameless man mumbled a goodbye and hurried away. Janelle leaned into the window, still smiling, and Dean caught a big whiff of her scent he'd simply labeled as _pretty_. "Thanks," she said.

"No problem," Dean replied.

"What are you doing here? Is Julie okay?" Janelle demanded an answer.

"Julie's fine," Dean assured her. "Just thought you could use a ride home." Janelle smirked.

"Oh ... thanks." She sauntered around the front of the Impala, and Dean cleared his throat as he willed away his physical excitement.

"Oh, God," he breathed, watching every step she took as she put on her sunglasses. In her white T-shirt and cut-off shorts, only two words came to Dean's mind: Daisy Duke.

"I love this car," Janelle commented truthfully, as she climbed into the passenger seat. It had been so long since Dean had had someone other than Sam sitting next to him and he was almost unsure of how to act.

"Yeah," he lamely agreed, "She gets me where I need to go." The stares from the locals flared up again, but it didn't seem to bother Janelle as she moved to get comfortable. "Wish I got stared at by women like this everyday," Dean joked. Janelle glanced at him and smiled beautifully.

"They're not staring at you," she said, "I think it's the car." Dean chuckled, glancing sideways at her. "I'm serious. All they have around here are Plymouths, Hondas, and Gremlins." She was rolling down the window and her left foot came off the floorboard as she utilized all her strength with the handle. Dean's jaw dropped, his eyes glued to her perfect and tan legs. He'd always been a leg man.

"I've been meaning to get that fixed," he said, referring to the window handle.

"Have you named her yet?" Janelle asked, ignoring his comment. Dean's eyebrows furrowed. "The car."

"Oh, no," Dean said. Janelle's green eyes narrowed and she turned to face him.

"You really should name her," she suggested. "She wants a name."

"What do you mean?" Dean wondered.

"I'm not weird," Janelle said. Dean glanced at her and shook his head.

"Darlin', in my line of work, nothing is weird," he said. Janelle nodded.

"Well, sometimes ... I ... know what cars are ... are thinking and what they're feeling. Kind of like those dog psychics or something." Dean nodded, allowing this new information to marinate in his mind.

"Well, what do you think I should name her, then?" he inquired. "What would _she_ like?" Janelle smiled happily, so relieved Dean didn't think she was some kind of freak.

"I think she likes Priscilla," she said, after allowing her hands a few moments to glide across the leather seats, the dashboard, and the door handle.

"Priscilla," Dean repeated, trying it on for size. He rather liked the name even if it did remind him of Elvis Presley, whose music he wasn't quite fond of. "I could do that," he finally agreed. Janelle smiled gratefully.

"Thank you for not making fun of me," she said. Dean glanced at her, switching hands on the wheel.

"When you're a freak like me, there's no such thing as making fun of someone," he explained. Janelle nodded.

"What exactly _is_ your line of work?" she questioned. "I mean, John said something about ghost hunting ..?" Dean took a deep breath and smiled awkwardly.

"That's ... a pretty long story," he replied. Before he could begin to explain the pretty long story, his cell phone rang obnoxiously through the pocket of his jeans. Lifting his hips, he dug into the pocket to retrieve the phone. This action did not go unnoticed by Janelle, whose wandering eyes were beginning to cause her problems.

"A ghost hunter's work is never done," she commented, as Dean flipped the phone open with his thumb.

"Yeah, this is Dean," he answered, ignoring Janelle's remark.

"I think you should get back here now," Sam's frightened voice came over the phone. "Like, _right_ now." The other-worldly shriek of a possessed woman slithered through the cell phone, and Dean tried in vain to cover the speaker, but Janelle could still hear it.

"What's happening?" she demanded, again hating herself for forgetting her sister's terrible condition and relatively enjoying her time with Dean away from her home.

"We're on our way," Dean said before snapping the phone shut. He glanced at Janelle. "I think Julie's awake."


	6. Chapter Six

**CHAPTER SIX**

"Sam!" Dean called, as he and Janelle ran into the house. Sam came down the stairs and put a finger to his lips.

"She's passed out," he sighed. Janelle's jaw dropped as she inspected Sam's exterior. His blue T-shirt was stretched and hanging off his shoulder, his hair was tousled and tangled, and there was a rather deep cut over his right eye.

"What happened?" Dean asked. Sam let out a deep, exhausted breath, stepping off the last stair.

"Is Julie okay?" Janelle inquired. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Julie's fine," he replied. "I untied her so she could go to the bathroom. It wasn't exactly my best career move to date."

"Well, you can relax now, little brother," Dean smiled brilliantly, holding his arms out. "I'm here." He patted Sam's shoulder before jogging up the staircase. Janelle watched him go, an estranged look on her face, and then turned to Sam.

"Can I clean your cut?" she asked, somewhat shyly. When Sam gave her a confusing stare, she reached up and touched the blood that was now trickling down the side of his face.

"That explains the headache then," Sam dryly joked, and Janelle cracked a smile. She led him into the bathroom where he sat on the toilet.

"How did it happen?" she asked quietly. Her sister's condition was the only thing on her mind.

Sam watched as she gathered rubbing alcohol, a box of Bandaids, some cotton balls, and a washcloth, and he hesitated giving a reply. He didn't want to tell her that Julie, or the demon inside of Julie, had bashed him over the head with a clock radio and then tried to jump out of the second story window.

"Just a little ... misunderstanding," he lied, for lack of a better phrase. It was quite evident that Janelle knew he was lying, but for that she was thankful. Deep down, she really didn't care to know what went on in Julie's bedroom, at least not until she was freed of whatever was possessing her.

"This is going to sting a little," she informed Sam, after cleaning his face and the wound. She dropped some alcohol onto a cotton ball and seemed to falter.

"That's all right," Sam grinned comfortingly. "I've been through worse." A fire, a homicidal woman in white, a wendigo, a lake ghost, a phantom, Bloody Mary, a shape-shifter who'd tried to kill him and a good friend all the while looking like his big brother, the fucking Hook Man, vengeful bugs and countless other horrors he chose not to remember.

Janelle dabbed the alcohol over the cut, causing Sam's skin to sting just as she'd warned, and then she covered it with a Bandaid.

"That's so weird," she muttered to herself, gazing at the box of Bandaids for a moment before replacing it back in the medicine cabinet.

"What?" Sam asked.

"I haven't used a Bandaid on a grown person since Jenna was visiting from college and cut her finger opening a can of tuna." Sam smiled after she did. "Funny how you remember those things, huh?" Sam nodded sympathetically.

"I'm sorry about all of this," he said, and Janelle looked down at him. "I wish I could tell you it'll be over soon, but …" She put up a hand and smiled.

"It's all right," she said. "You're here to help and that's all that matters." Sam stood up to a towering height over Janelle, and she giggled. "You've got to be hungry."

"Actually …" He felt awkward saying yes, but he _was_ hungry as he hadn't eaten anything all day and he wasn't comfortable just going through another family's cabinets and refrigerator even though Spencer had given he and Dean the okay to do so.

"Come on, I'll fix you something," Janelle said, and Sam followed her into the kitchen. "I'm not a master chef or anything, but my grilled cheese sandwiches are the best in five counties." Sam breathed a laugh.

"Grilled cheese sounds great."

Once the sandwiches were cooking and Janelle was sitting in front of Sam, he decided to ask her the question he'd been wondering about since the dream he'd had the night before. He was prepared for the awkwardness of her answer, but he had to know.

"Do you have any kids?" he asked. Janelle looked at him.

"Nope," she sighed politely, smiling faintly. There was a small light at the end of Sam's dark tunnel.

"Do either of your sisters have kids?" he went on. She shook her head.

"Nope. None of us are married and, as far as I know, Jenna and Julie aren't seeing anybody." Sam nodded, sighing unknowingly. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," he lied. "Just … trying to make conversation that isn't centered around …"

"Ah," Janelle grinned, and she seemed to look deep into his brown eyes. He felt as if he were being probed for secret thoughts, secret feelings, even secret knowledge. Her emerald gaze locked with his for several seconds until he found the will to break it.

"I didn't mean to get personal," he said. Janelle shrugged, returning to the stove to flip the sandwiches before they burned.

"You're sweet, Sam," she said, glancing at him over her shoulder. He smiled a thank you. "And awfully pretty."

The sandwiches were finished in no time and she presented them to him on a plate along with his requested glass of Coke. When she began to fix two more sandwiches, Sam assumed she was making them for herself, but when they were ready to be eaten, she was heading out of the kitchen.

"I'm gonna take these to your brother," she said.

"You're not eating?" Sam asked, but she didn't answer as she walked through the living room and up the stairs. Neither seemed to realize that it probably wasn't a good idea for her to see the inside of Julie's room after the clock radio incident.

Janelle knocked on the door before turning the knob and pushing it opened.

"Hey …" Dean started, thinking he was speaking to Sam. He turned and, upon seeing Janelle, jumped out of the rocking chair and ran toward the door, tripping several times on the way. "Whoa, hey!" he grinned, pushing her out of the room and closing the door behind him.

"Was that …?" Janelle began, pointing her finger.

"No," Dean immediately denied, knowing she was referring to the broken clock radio on the floor with Sam's blood splattered on it. "Hey! Grilled cheese! My favorite."

"Yeah," Janelle breathed, still looking in the direction of the clock radio even though she could no longer see it. "I thought you … might be hungry." He took the plate from her and smiled. "Is everything okay in there?" she questioned.

"Uh huh," Dean replied, biting his bottom lip nervously. The house phone began to ring and Dean sighed happily. "You better get that," he said. Janelle reluctantly tore her eyes from her sister's bedroom door and jogged downstairs toward the phone in the living room. "Damn it," Dean whispered. "Sam!"

"What?" Sam replied with a mouthful of grilled cheese. Then it dawned on him and he winced.

"I know you're down there, little brother! You gotta come up here _sometime_!"

Dean looked around at Julie's room as he sat in the rocking chair, eating Janelle's fabulous grilled cheese sandwiches. He wondered what Sam's story would be when he got the chance to talk to his brother about the bump on his head.

Julie was again restrained to the bed, but completely knocked out cold. Her face was stained with tears and her hair was nothing but knots. She looked terrible; she looked like someone possessed. But the room was worse off. The curtains had been shredded and pulled from the window, the clock radio lay in pieces on the floor decorated with Sam's blood, and the headboard of Julie's bed had dents and scratches in it. Dean didn't need to ask where they had come from.

But tonight was the night. They were going to expel Elathan from Julie once and for all. And hopefully without incident.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's Note:** Just want everyone to know that I personally know nothing about exorcisms or even the Catholic religion, so if there's any mistakes or other bad things, don't hold them against me. Thanks!

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

"Please remember ..." Sam began, looking from Janelle to Spencer. "Don't come upstairs. No matter what you hear. _Don't come upstairs_." The father and daughter nodded, although reluctant to agree. "There will probably be a lot of screaming, she'll lie, but it's not her. So _don't_ come upstairs." He looked into Janelle's eyes accusingly. "Don't." Janelle's eyebrows rose in offense.

"I _won't_," she growled with an attitude. Funny how this guy was trying to tell her what to do in her own home. If she wanted to go upstairs into Julie's room, if Julie was calling for help, she would try to help. She didn't need permission from Sam Winchester to do so.

"Then I guess we're ready," Sam said to Dean. Dean's lips curled and he nodded. Sam passed him and headed up the stairs. Dean looked at Janelle, their eyes connecting for a moment, and he smiled halfheartedly before following his brother to Julie's room.

"Come on, Janie," Spencer said, pulling her toward the kitchen. "I'll fix you something to eat." Janelle watched Dean jog up the staircase and then trudged into the kitchen.

"I'm not hungry," she sighed, sitting down. She didn't want to sit alone with her father while Julie went through an exorcism, as she wasn't sure how either of them would handle it. They neither knew what to expect.

"You gotta eat," Spencer told her, trying his hardest to sound friendly and fatherly at the same time.

Janelle said nothing, digging into the pocket of her zip-up hoodie to retrieve a pack of Turkish Royals and a pink lighter. She wetted the tip of the cigarette with her lips, popped it into her mouth, and lit it. She inhaled the smoke like it was oxygen and exhaled it slowly through her nostrils.

Spencer turned to her to ask what she wanted to eat when he spotted the cancerous stick in her mouth. He looked down at her disapprovingly, and she gazed right back at him, seemingly challenging him to argue with what she was doing.

Meanwhile, Dean locked Julie's bedroom door behind him, and he and Sam stood silently, unmoving. Julie was still tied to the bed, but she was sitting upright, staring them down. Her eyes were dark, evil, and the brothers were sure it wasn't Julie they were dealing with at the moment.

"Hold her down," Sam instructed, and Dean looked at him angrily.

"Why do I always have to hold them down?" he asked. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Just do it." Dean sighed, removing his outer shirt and tossing it onto the rocking chair, and started toward Julie, who was now smiling at him. Dean really didn't get scared of many things anymore, but smiles like that – demonic and menacing – frightened him the tiniest bit.

"Big, strong man gonna hold me down," Julie grinned, her voice deep and angry. Dean smiled mockingly at her and shoved her shoulders into the headboard. "Ooh ..." she moaned. "Kinda kinky. You wanna do that to my sister?" Dean's jaw clenched and he turned to Sam.

"Would you get on with it, please?" he commanded. Sam stepped forward with the papers he'd printed from the internet. He took a deep breath.

"I can see what you want to do to her," Julie nastily said. "You sick bastard." His jaw muscles flexed frantically as he restrained himself from knocking her block off.

"Sam!" he yelled.

"On her knees, isn't she?" Julie continued, raising her eyebrows inquisitively. "With her mouth full of …"

"Shut up!" Dean commanded, slamming her back against the headboard again. She only laughed.

"Exorciso te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei, Patris omnipotentis," Sam relayed Latin. _I exorcise thee, every unclean spirit, in the name of God, the Father Almighty_. "Et ni nomine Jesu Christi, Filii ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri." _And in the name of Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord and Judge_.

Julie, or the thing inside of Julie, began to howl. Her mouth opened wide and the sounds that came out weren't anything close to human-sounding. She yanked at the restraints and tears fell from her empty eyes.

Sam extracted the bottle of holy water from his jacket and began to squirt droplets onto Julie's body. Her exposed skin burned, and Julie's female voice found its way out, mixing with the demonic one of Elathan.

"I am _it_ inside of you!" Julie screamed, that eerie, monstrous voice wracking the brothers' bodies with chills. She suddenly snapped her head to face Dean, her nose brushing his, and her now red eyes impaled his thoughts. "I am your hate, Winchester," she growled. She smiled maniacally, her irises flashing violet for a moment. "I am your hate for your brother."

"Et in virtute Spiritus Sancti," Sam went on, though his curiosity about Julie's last statement ate away at him. _And in the power of the Holy Spirit_. Her words only added fuel to the fire the shape-shifter had ignited inside of him.

"He went to college because he had a _chance_," Julie said. "Daddy didn't want _you_ to go because you'd fucked up your life beyond the point of fixing it with education." Dean's nostrils flared in rage, but he still said nothing. "You're a fucking screw up, Dean Winchester. You embarrassed your father. He was ashamed of you." She paused, tilted her head, and grinned. "Why do you think he left?"

"Ut descedas ab hac plasmate Dei, Julie, quod Dominus noster ad templum sanctum, suum vocare elignatus est." _That thee depart from this creature of God, Julie, which our Lord hath designed to call unto His holy temple, that it may be made the temple of the living God_. He dropped more of the blessed water onto Julie's skin, which heightened her screams, and she fought harder against the tape and rope while Dean held fast to her shoulders.

"You let her burn, Sam Winchester," Julie smiled, turning her attention to Sam. "You knew and you let her bleed and burn!" Sam gulped and paused the Latin. "She depended on you to keep her safe. To keep her _alive_, and you let her down. You watched her burn for days, but did you do anything?" She laughed and shook her head. "No. You sat back in that happy little world you created and fucking _waited_ for it to happen. That almost sounds like murder to me."

Downstairs, Janelle was finishing her second cigarette, crushing it out on the tabletop as there was no ashtray in the house. The screams from Julie's room were increasing in volume and terrifying howls. Janelle thought this type of thing was only present in movies. Only actors could portray demonic possession because it couldn't happen in real life. But it was happening to her sister. Why didn't it come after her?

One more scream in a different language, and Janelle stood from the table, knocking her chair backward. "I can't stand this," she cried, and she bolted through the house and out the front door. Spencer didn't bother to follow his daughter; she'd just demand that he leave her alone, and he grabbed a Heineken out of the refrigerator.

Janelle stomped passed Dean's Impala and glanced inside; the keys were still in the ignition. He must have hurried inside so quickly that he'd forgotten to grab the keys. Janelle took advantage of this mistake and climbed into the driver's seat, gently closing the door.

At the same time, the exorcism of Julie was getting almost too intense for Sam and Dean to handle. Objects were flying around the room and the demon was revealing secrets about them that neither cared to share.

Suddenly one of her arms was free, and she decked Dean, knocking him to the floor. Before she could do the same to Sam, he'd pressed a small cross to her forehead, which he'd retrieved from the trunk.

"She won't be saved!" the demon wailed, and then Julie fell limp and unconscious. Sam hurriedly restrained her freed arm and then ran to his brother's aid.

"Ow," Dean whined, gently touching his mouth where Julie had clocked him.

"Ever get hit on like that before?" Sam jested. Dean glared up at him.

"I still got all my teeth?" he inquired, smiling sarcastically. Sam recoiled at the blood pooling in his brother's mouth.

"Yeah," he answered, "But you could stand to brush once in a while."

"Eh, blow me," Dean growled, and Sam helped him to his feet.

"I think that's enough for tonight," Sam sighed, and the two left Julie's room, locking the door behind them, though they were unsure if a simple lock would supply any protection. But they both needed a break, needed time to calm down and figure out what to do next.

"I don't understand why the better looking of the two always has to get his face mangled," Dean mumbled to himself, gazing at his tired reflection in the bathroom mirror as he dabbed at the blood trickling from the inside of his mouth as well as from his busted bottom lip.

"Spencer's out back on his third Heineken," Sam said, scratching his head.

"Where's Janelle?" Dean asked. Sam looked at his brother through the mirror and, having completely forgotten about Janelle because of her identical likeness to Julie, shrugged. Dean sighed, glancing at the large spot of blood on the rag. "I'll go find her," he offered. "Chill out for a few minutes, then go back upstairs."

"Hey, did Dad ever mention any relation to Hitler?" Sam sardonically remarked. Dean maneuvered a hand behind his back and lifted his middle finger. Sam smirked as he plopped down on the couch; he needed sleep, but more than that, he needed a shower.

In the Impala, Janelle desired a cigarette, but she chose not to smoke in someone else's car. For one; it was rude, and two; Priscilla did not want her seats tainted with the stench of cancer. She propped her foot up on the dashboard and leaned forward, letting her head rest on the steering wheel, as her hands held onto it at the sides.

Priscilla spoke to her. Telling her that if Janelle was to ever ride in or drive her, she would do everything in her mechanical power to take care of her. Like she did with Dean. Like she did with Sam. Janelle smiled a thank you just as the screen door to her house slammed. She looked up in time to see Dean cringe at the ridiculous bang, and then he continued toward the Chevy. Janelle quickly locked the door, expecting to see Dean get angry, but he didn't.

Standing next to his car with Janelle in the driver's seat, he knew immediately that she was just upset and not contemplating stealing the Impala. He tapped the window with the ring on his finger, and Janelle laid back in the seat, looking up at him. When she made no move to unlock the door, Dean squatted down, leaning one arm against the door and resting his chin on top of it.

The two seemed to stare at each other for the longest time through the window, but it was only a matter of seconds. Dean smiled up at Janelle unexpectedly. Not a charming, flirtatious smile, but a meaningful, sympathetic one. A smile that told Janelle that he understood and that he cared.

Janelle moved closer to the window, closer to Dean, as she observed him. She drank in his handsome, chiseled features for several moments, as he did the same. Then she rolled down the window.

"I'm not coming out, but you can come in," she stated. Dean nodded.

"All right, move over."


	8. Chapter Eight

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

_Dean exits Julie's room as Sam enters for his watch. Closing the door, he spots Janelle standing in the doorway of her room watching him, wearing the hockey jersey and shorts. When she's sure he's looking at her, she curls her finger, motioning for him to come closer. Dean glances down the hallway to make sure Spencer isn't lurking nearby before heading over to her._

"_You okay?" he asks. Janelle only nods._

"_I'm fine," she whispers, reaching up to his face, gently gripping his chin between her thumb and forefinger and pulling his face to hers. She kisses him fully, first tasting and getting to know his techniques, which are far more experienced than hers, and then she licks the wound on his lip where she encounters an oddly familiar copperish taste._

"_Wait," Dean breathes, placing his hands on her hips and easily pushing her away. She decreases in height as she falls from her tip toes. "Not that I'm complaining, but, uh … what are you doing?"_

"_What happened here?" Janelle asks, bypassing the question and touching his bruised lip._

"_Turns out your sister packs a mean punch," Dean jokes. Janelle gazes into his hazel eyes, capturing his attention, and he can literally see the lust and want in her glittering emeralds._

"_Let me make you feel better," she whispers, grasping his T-shirt and pulling him into her room. Fortunately for Dean, he knows this would be taking advantage of Janelle's vulnerable state, so therefore, it should be easy for him to stop her and not regret it later. Unfortunately for Dean, he's a man, and once a man gets started with a willing participant, it's not so simple to just stop._

_Dean steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him. He grabs Janelle's face and crushes his lips to hers despite the pain it causes. In the back of his mind, he worries his bottom lip will be even more sore later, but that's neither here nor there. He feels her tug at his T-shirt, leading him toward her bed. This is bad, he's sure of that much, only it feels so damned good to be bad, to be wanted, to be needed._

_Janelle lifts his shirt over his head and she inspects his chest as if looking for something special, something she subconsciously knows to be there. She finds it in the two inch scar almost invisible to the naked eye on his side just above his belt. She touches it; her silky soft fingers sliding over it, memorizing it. Dean closes his eyes and inhales deeply; he knew chicks dug scars._

_More clothing is removed including Janelle's jersey and her shorts, and then Dean shoves her playfully onto the bed on her stomach. She turns her head to the side, smiling, as he lays on top of her, one leg between hers. He places strategic kisses on her naked shoulders, back, and neck, as his hand ghosts over her skin; up and down her back and down her arm. He gazes down at her bronze skin, which seems to be glowing under the moonlight pouring in from the window, and he's astonished at how soft and alluring it is. He's more interested in the satin-like feel of it than what he should be interested in._

_Janelle stealthily slides her knees up underneath her a few inches, driving her hips against his, and Dean remembers he has other duties to tend to. He reaches down to begin opening his jeans, and he leans his chest against Janelle's back, kissing her neck wetly. She moans, arching her back, her head leaning back against his shoulder and her hips lifting into his again. Dean rolls his eyes; at this rate, he's never going to get his pants unbuttoned._

_After the lightning strike of a wonderful idea, Dean grabs her hands and slides them up the bed above her head where he imprisons them with his left hand while his right hand takes care of his jeans. He doesn't remove them completely, just unbuckles the belt, unbuttons, and unzips them, and then he enters Janelle swiftly. Her moans are quiet and soft against the mattress beneath her, her hands claw the blanket, and she moves back into every thrust. Dean brushes her platinum hair away from her face and practically drools over her neck and cheek._

_He's making a big mistake. He absolutely should not be fucking the sister of a so-called client right across the hall from where his baby brother stands watch over said client. In a minute, Sammy could come barging in or worse … Spencer might walk in to check on Janelle without knocking. The possibilities of getting caught are endless. But that's probably what's making him so undeniably excited._

"_Oh …" Janelle whimpers, her forehead falling to the bed. "God." Her arms move back to her sides, her forearms supporting the weight of her upper body, and her shoulders shrugging upward. Dean's hand moves underneath Janelle, wrapping around her middle, and his other arm maneuvers itself below her neck and above her arms. He growls into her ear with every thrust, and he thinks he even hears her growl._

"_Fuck," is the only expressive word he can think of to say. But he knows it's the right one when he feels her shudder against him._

"_Dean …" she breathes, lifting her head. He can smell her **pretty** scent as his nose meets her hair. This is about all he can take, and he suddenly removes himself from her slick sweetness and rolls her over onto her back, reentering her roughly. Her mouth opens to scream, but his hand covers it before she can get a sound out. Her legs tighten around his waist and her nails scratch painfully at his back._

"_Look at me," he commands, but gains no response. He yanks her face downward – his fingers on her cheek and his thumb below her chin – and forces her to look up at him. She smiles, wrapping her arms around his neck, and, for the first time, realizes he hasn't removed his pants. She finds this to be an odd turn on._

"_Faster," she begs. Dean grins; he's not one for following specific orders, but he certainly plans to agree to this one. His pace quickens and his desire rises. _

_Looking down at her, his hand now claiming her neck and applying little pleasure, he feels his climax swimming in its beginning stages within the pit of his stomach and at the base of his spine. He's very hot, probably perspiring, but his steady rhythm never falters._

_Janelle's eyes remain locked with his, daring not to move away for fear his grip might tighten on her throat. She knew there was a rough, possibly kinky man beneath the leather jacket and sleek Impala; the callused hand clutching her neck is evidence to that._

_Dean looks down, seeing her knee bent up almost to his shoulder. That's it. His eyes return to hers, his hand gripping her thigh, and he begins to all but slam into her. She's going to scream again, so his other hand resumes the job of keeping her quiet. Her hand comes to the back of his head, pulling at his short hair and scratching his scalp, as she brings his lips to hers. She's missed kissing those full, red lips. Even wounded, they're magical._

_Growling instead of pounding his fist on the bed, Dean explodes within a writhing Janelle as he bites down hard on her bottom lip. They're still for a moment, catching their breath, and their eyes meet again. Janelle smiles so beautifully and Dean wonders if this is real. It has to be; this night was too amazing to be a dream._

Dean started awake on the couch in the Markem's living room. His wide, frightened eyes surveyed the room; he was alone from what he could tell, but that was hardly his concern at the moment.

Had he just dreamed the most vividly damning sex dream ever? God, it felt so real. He was even experiencing exhaustion and fatigue, which commonly accompanied morning afters. Her fingers were still on his back, though invisible, on his neck, in his hair, and on his scar. His own hand snaked below the leather jacket he'd obviously used as a blanket and underneath his T-shirt to the scar. He remembered that damned witch and how she'd somehow gotten the best of him with her makeshift switchblade. The cut wasn't long, but deep, and the doctors had strongly recommended that he spend the night at the hospital for observation, but he'd politely demanded that they sew him up and let him be on his way. They warned him of a scar, and he'd smiled. _Chicks dig scars_, he'd told John.

A clicking sound followed by a clattering alerted Dean to a presence in the kitchen. He didn't want to get up to find out who it was, as he was still heavily debating whether or not he'd had sex with Janelle last night. Unfortunately, it would have to wait, and he threw off his jacket, standing from the couch. His lower back muscles shot a painful protest throughout his body, which could have been chalked up to the uncomfortable couch and not just rigorous sexual activity. He felt spent, limbs like Jell-O, but he pressed on into the kitchen.

Janelle was sitting at the far end of the table, her hair a mess, and a cigarette between her lips. The click he'd heard moments before was the lighter igniting followed by being dropped onto the table. She looked tired, but there was a special glow about her, a familiar luminosity he'd seen in other women. A healthy sexual glow. Or it could be the way the light was hitting her, he thought indecisively.

"Uh … morning," he awkwardly greeted. Janelle only raised her eyebrows, barely acknowledging his presence. What if they _had_ been together last night and he totally sucked? "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't," she dryly replied, exhaling a long stream of smoke through her O shaped lips. Dean nodded knowingly, looking down.

"You … uh … didn't go to work today?" he asked.

"Nope," she sighed nonchalantly.

"Where's Spencer?" Janelle breathed a laugh.

"He, however, _did_ go to work," she said. "Hangover and all." Dean eyed her sadly, somehow feeling her pain from across the table.

"Listen, I'm sorry about all this …" he started. Janelle put up a hand, the cigarette between her first and middle fingers, and she closed her eyes.

"Don't," she growled. "I'm finished with you and your brother's apologies. We don't need your _fucking_ sympathy. We need your _help_."

"I know …" Dean whispered, nodding his head.

"I'm calling a priest." Dean's eyebrows furrowed.

"Really?" he asked. "Why didn't you just do that in the first place?"

"Because I didn't believe it in the first place, remember?" she asked smartly. "I'm not Catholic either. Don't plan on converting. In fact, if there _is_ a God, he can bite me." Dean gulped and closed his eyes.

"Janelle …"

"This is your last day," she interrupted angrily. "Anything bad happens to my sister or that fucking _thing_ isn't out of her by tonight, you take your car and your brother and you get the fuck out of my town."

"We told you this would take some time," Dean argued, positively offended by her harsh words. "You asked for _our_ help, remember?" He indicated whom he was speaking of by pointing to himself.

"Yeah, I did," Janelle maintained the same attitude as she leaned forward, glaring at Dean. "I haven't seen a lot of progress, though, Mr. Winchester. It's been a week!"

"It's an exorcism, Janelle," he growled. "We can't just snap our fingers and it's done!" Janelle smiled, shaking her head.

"Then maybe you and your little brother need the help," she said. Janelle crushed out the cigarette on the table top. She put her hands over her face and her shoulders shook from crying, Dean could tell.

"Janelle," he said, leaning forward. "Why don't you take a ride with me?" Janelle's hands fell to the table and she looked at him, her eyes evil, daring, annoyed, and soaked.

"Fuck you, Dean," she growled. Dean smiled, glancing downward, embarrassed by her hostility, but he knew he couldn't get angry at her or yell at her.

"Take a ride with me," he repeated, gently, enticingly. "You need to get out of the house. Just for a little while, then we'll come back." Janelle's face unexpectedly softened, then saddened, and tears pricked her eyes again.

"I don't want to leave Julie," she whispered.

"Julie's gonna be fine," Dean explained, standing from the table and walking over to her, placing a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. The last thing he wanted her to do was insult him or yell at him or become angry again. "Sam's here, I'll have my cell phone …"

A howl originating from Julie's room, now familiar to everyone nearly shook the house. Rattling and banging came next, probably Julie fighting the restraints, and Janelle's hands quickly moved to cover her ears.

"Dean!" Sam called.

Dean ran out of the kitchen, through the living room, and up the staircase, taking three stairs at a time, and then hurried down the hall to Julie's room, kicking the door open. Julie was completely loose from the bed restraints and she'd thrown herself on top of Sam, her hands squeezing his neck as hard as she could to the point where Sam's face was red, his eyes bulging and bloodshot.

Dean scurried across the room, ready to grab Julie and fight her off of his little brother with everything he had, when Julie turned to him with consumed black eyes and smiled wildly. One hand was removed from Sam's neck and it grabbed Dean's jacket, yanking him down to her level, and then she clawed at his throat.

Dean gagged and pulled at her hand, but every attempt to breathe was futile. His terrified hazel eyes were imprisoned by Julie's black ones, and he could see the amusement there, the hatred, the inhuman being within. He feared suddenly that the demon might try to possess him next. But he was still glad he'd come in when he did; better him than Sammy.

"I pray Lucifer that he never leave you, but always keep you firmly in his power, as he does now," she growled, her bottom lip held low to reveal that row of teeth. "You are all mine, and I am your master!" She began to laugh insanely, and Dean seized the opportunity to get one good punch across Julie's face. He was well aware this was not the way to handle an innocent woman possessed by a demon, but he needed to breathe, and so did Sammy.

"You choose who dies first," she snarled. Dean continued yanking at her death grip on his throat.

"Fuck you," Dean forced out. Julie's face contorted in rage and she shoved him away, sending him flying across the room and into a wall.

"Yeah," Sam suddenly choked, gaining Julie's attention. "Fuck you." He'd reached to the crucifix that had been knocked from his hand earlier, and pressed it hard against Julie's cheek. She cried out, the holy ornament causing her flesh to sizzle, and the demon finally relented, sending Julie to the floor on her back. Sam held the crucifix to his chest as he caught his breath. "Bitch," he sighed.

"Oh, my God!" Sam lifted his head and found Janelle standing in the doorway, her hands covering her mouth, eyes wide. She looked at Sam and, surprising him, hurried over to his side. "Are you okay?" she breathed, helping him to sit up.

"Yeah," Sam croaked.

"Where's Dean?" she asked. She'd evidently entered the room after Dean had been thrown into the wall.

"Over there," Sam replied, forcing himself to get up and crawl across the floor to his unconscious brother. Janelle scrambled to the other side of Dean, checking the pulse in his neck, which was very strong. Janelle found herself smiling at the obvious mighty will to live that resided in both brothers.

"What should we do?" she asked Sam, looking hopefully over at him. Sam's neck was terribly sore, his chest was tight from the extra effort of breathing, and his head throbbed so badly that black spots came and went on the outsides of his vision. But he had to act fast before Julie or the demon awoke.

"Help me tie her up," he said, using the wall to climb to his feet. Janelle was reluctant, hating that he had the audacity to ask this of her, and she didn't move. "Janelle, please?" Sam begged. Janelle gulped down a golf ball-sized lump in her throat before grabbing her sister's legs as Sam lifted her upper body and they carried her to the bed. Sam instructed her on how to bind Julie's hands to the headboard, and Janelle slowly did as she was told.

"Is she dying, Sam?" she suddenly asked, brushing Julie's sweat-soaked brown hair behind her ear. A red burn mark was beginning to materialize on her cheek in the shape of a cross. Sam glanced at Janelle briefly, pocketing the crucifix, and heading over to Dean, who was still lying lifeless against the wall, his cheek resting on his shoulder.

"She's not gonna die, Janelle," he said sternly, pulling Dean forward, maneuvering himself behind him, hooking his hands under Dean's arms, and dragging him backward out of the bedroom. Janelle followed, and Sam propped his brother up against the hallway wall.

"Shouldn't we take him to a hospital or something?" Janelle inquired, taking in Dean's broken position. "I mean, he could be concussed or … something," Sam stood up, breathing deeply.

"He'll be fine," he sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. "Now …" He stepped over Dean's legs and then stood before Janelle. "Do you know the number of a Catholic priest?"


	9. Chapter Nine

_sorry this chapter took so long. my computer died last week with my entire story on it. i'm still waiting for it to be fixed. i didn't wanna keep you guys waiting too long, so i rewrote this chapter from memory._

**CHAPTER NINE**

_He can see her face so clearly even in the inky darkness of her room. He's still lying on top of her comfortably between her legs and he has no plans of moving anytime soon. He just wants to lie there with his hand on her cheek, and her hands gently massaging his shoulders. _

"We could get caught, you know," she whispers, her breath a hot rush over his lips. He growls a laugh and nods once, feeling her shiver beneath him.

"I know," he replies in a whisper as well. She giggles, and he loves this sound. She sounds so childlike, so innocent.

"You're the kind of guy who gets off on that sort of thing, aren't you?" she asks deviously. He laughs again, brandishing his teeth.

"I might be," he grins. Another giggle.

"You kinky bastard."

Dean jumped awake, immediately feeling something cold against the back of his head. More dreams of Janelle, only it didn't feel like a dream; it felt like a genuine goddamned memory. He could still feel the physical aspects of it all; her touch, her kiss, her laugh.

"Take it easy, Nightshift."

Startled again, Dean jumped away from the voice, though it was familiar and a bit revitalizing. His eyes came to meet Janelle's as she held a rag full of ice to the back of his head. Then he began to notice the intense throbbing pain all around his brain.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You were thrown into a wall," she replied, obviously attempting to hide a tinge of amusement in the tone of her voice. Dean chuckled, mortified that he couldn't seem to do one damned thing right where these sisters were concerned.

"Well," he sighed, his eyebrows rising, "Not the first time and it definitely won't be the last." Janelle's smile was quick, and Dean almost didn't catch it.

"I called a priest," she disclosed regretfully.

Dean nodded knowingly, staring hard at the floor. He couldn't blame her for making the call after his untimely run-in with a relentless wall, but he felt ashamed of himself just the same for not being able to handle this case. He let her down, he let Spencer down, he let Jenna down even though she had no idea of the situation, but most of all, he let Julie down.

"Probably a good idea," he mumbled, albeit feeling quite sick having to admit it. Janelle gazed sadly down at him. It was way more than obvious that he was humiliated over the events that had occurred the past few days.

"Your brother told me to," she said, hoping this bit of information would make him feel a little better. He looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. He knew what she was doing and he appreciated it.

"Janelle, I'm really sorry we couldn't help you," he said, and the straightforwardness in his voice and his earnest eyes made her believe him, made her feel his sincerity.

"You did help us, Dean," she whispered her reply, smiling halfheartedly. "You believed us." She tilted her head and readjusted the ice on his head. "That's really all we needed." Their eyes were fastened in a silent duel, and then Janelle touched his busted bottom lip.

"Ah!" Dean growled. Janelle winced.

"Sorry. You should put ice on that, too," she advised. Dean's gaze permeated her thoughts until her eyes moved from his full lips to his eyes.

"I'm alright," he breathed.

Unsure of what exactly she was doing, Janelle moved her fingers from his lip to his stubbled cheek, her eyes leaving his again to watch the movements of her hand as it caressed his skin. Dean's eyes closed; it had been so long since he'd been touched like this. Her hand was so soft and her eyes were intense, fiery. Dean still wondered about his dreams and whether or not they were real, and the situation now was doing nothing to help his decision.

"Are you sure?" she whispered. Dean took several moments to remember what she was referring to. Upon remembering, he nodded.

"Yeah," he sighed, his head falling back against the wall. "I'm alright." Her face moved closer to his, and he ached to kiss her, but he restrained himself because he didn't want to rush her or put her into a position she didn't want to be in.

"Dean," she breathed, her minty breath floating over his mouth. He blinked.

"Yeah?"

Janelle licked her lips, scooting closer to Dean, and she glanced from his eyes to his lips and back to his eyes. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, taking one last moment to reconsider her plite, but she quickly realized there was no reason for this, as she was going to kiss him either way.

Her lips lightly brushed his, not wanting to cause his injured lip any unnecessary pain; she would have to let him lead. Dean knew what she was doing when her lips didn't apply any pressure after whisking over his, so he did well to take control.

Their lips moved perfectly in synch, slowly and softly, familiarizing themselves with contours and techniques. Seconds later, the two were practically clawing at each other as tongues met and proceeded to copulate and teeth clashed. Moans were muffled by the other's mouth, and Dean had completely forgotten about the pain in his head and lip. Janelle had long since dropped the rag full of ice, wrapping that arm around his neck while her other hand continued to caress his cheek.

"Excuse me?"

Janelle jumped - immediately breaking the connection with Dean - and hiding her face between Dean's head and the wall. The voice didn't belong to Sam or Spencer, so it had to belong to only one other person.

"Hello, Father," Dean greeted over Janelle's platinum head. He smiled awkwardly as the embarrassment from Janelle radiated into him.

"I'm Father Harris," the priest said, "And this is Father Staite."

"Dean Winchester," Dean said, awfully amused when both priests leaned down to shake his hand. Then they looked to Janelle, who was still visibly concealing her humiliation.

"Miss Markem?" Father Harris asked. Janelle pulled away from Dean, gazing hopefully into his eyes, begging him to get her out of the situation, and then she finally turned to the priests.

"Father," she whispered, unwantonly coming to her feet. The three shook hands, and Janelle pointed to Julie's bedroom door.

"We'll be getting started in a moment," Father Harris said, then he and his colleague headed into the room to prepare. Janelle turned to Dean as she smiled strangely, placing a hand to her forehead.

"As if my week hasn't been bad enough, I had to get caught making out by a priest," she complained. Dean chuckled, grabbing the rag with ice before standing.

"Well, look at the bright side," he sighed. "You picked the handsome brother." Janelle smiled weakly up at him and wrapped her arms around his waist for a somewhat awkward hug, but Dean replied by encircling her shoulders with his muscular arms. She felt safe and protected.

"Tell me everything's gonna be okay, Nightshift," she said. Dean grinned at the nickname; it was quite appropriate with he and Sam's line of work, and the fact that he usually took the nights to watch over Julie.

"Everything's gonna be okay," he assured her, tightening his grip on her. Janelle blinked slowly and pulled away enough to look up at him.

"You're lying, aren't you?" she asked quietly. Dean simply smiled.

"It's what you wanted to hear, isn't it?"


	10. Chapter Ten

**Author's Note:** I wanna thank those of you that reviewed. Reviews are all an author has in way of motivation. But that was only three reviews, out of 22 people who are registered with alerts for this story. It would mean a lot if you also reviewed. Three out of hundreds isn't very motivating for me, as I'm sure you can understand.

**Chapter Ten**

Sam watched wordlessly as the priests prepared for their endeavor. The men retrieved their purple stoles from boxes marked with carved crosses, kissed the crosses on the fabric, and then pulled them around the backs of their necks.

"There is great evil in this room," Father Harris remarked to Father Staite, who nodded in agreement. "I fear we may be dealing with Lucifer himself." Sam's eyebrow arched curiously and he debated what exactly to say to them to tell them they were wrong. Father Staite's eyes shaded with fear as he glanced around the room suspiciously, and Sam could sense the foreboding emanating from the holy man.

"Are you alright?" Sam wondered, standing still with one arm crossed over his chest and the other set atop it, his hand shielding his mouth. He certainly wanted assurance that both priests were completely capable of performing the exorcism, but he also wanted to bring attention to Staite's apprehension.

"Control yourself, Father Staite," Harris commanded, grabbing the younger man by his shoulders. Staite nodded strongly (as strongly as he could, anyway) and continued to ready himself.

"I don't -" Sam began, and then paused, rubbing his fingers down the sides of his mouth. "I don't think we're dealing with Lucifer here." The priests turned to him - Father Harris with an expression of amusement - and Sam immediately felt embarrassed, but also offended. He wasn't any kind of holy man, but he'd been in the supernatural business for a considerable amount of time - he knew what he was talking about, damn it.

"What makes you think that, son?" Father Harris questioned. Sam blinked slowly, glaring at the belittling priest. One thing he truly hated about his father was when he called him _son_ in that condescending tone - the exact tone Father Harris had just used.

"Have you ever heard of a demon called Elathan?" Sam finally disclosed, though he felt quite ignorant doing so, knowing these priests would think he was crazy.

"I think maybe you've seen one too many horror movies, son," Father Harris chuckled. There was that tone again and that one single word that sent shudders of anger throughout Sam's body. And he thought Dad and Dean were bad.

"If you'll just listen to me ..." Sam started, but was inevitably interrupted by Spencer barging into the room clad in a mechanics jumpsuit. He pushed passed Sam to get to Julie's bed, and Sam quietly excused himself as he'd never before wanted to deck a preacher so badly.

Stepping out into the hallway, Sam nearly ran into Dean and Janelle embracing. He'd known Dean's substantial involvement in this case and, apparently, Janelle Markem went far beyond any other case he could remember, but still Sam was utterly perplexed by it. Dean had restricted his relationships to one night stands - that much was more than obvious - because what had happened to Mom and what ultimately happened to Jessica would, according to Dean, eventually happen to him should he ever fall in love. Sam couldn't blame him in that department, but without love, what was life?

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Sam impatiently asked Dean. Dean's eyebrows arched furiously, but he gently excused himself from Janelle, and the brothers walked down the hall regretfully side by side. The stairs were nearby, and Sam could see Dean throw him down them so vividly.

"What, Sam?" Dean demanded, holding his hands out.

"The priests don't know about Elathan and they won't listen to me," Sam explained. "They think it's Lucifer possessing Julie." Dean took a deep breath, shifting his weight, and settling his hands on his hips.

"Alright, well, there's nothing we can do about that," he said. "All exorcisms are basically the same. Just let them do their thing." Dean started away.

"But Dean ..."

"Sam!" Dean exclaimed, spinning around again, putting up a hand to stop his brother from speaking. "Just let it go. They wouldn't believe us anyway. They're preachers." Sam watched his only sibling stare him down, knowing full well Dean was such a live wire because of his interest in Janelle. Sam smirked; Dean wasn't fooling anyone.

"We'll be ready to start soon, Ms. Markem," Father Harris told Janelle, stepping out of Julie's room. Janelle solemnly nodded. "We'll need you to help us hold her down." Janelle's eyes grew wide and she tilted her head inquisitively.

"The hell are you talkin' about?" Dean shouted down the hallway.

"Dean ..." Sam warned, but his brother was already haflway down the hall.

"I don't want to be in there," Janelle said.

"And you shouldn't have to be," Dean growled, directing his statement toward the priest, who sighed.

"Exorcisms are far more effective if family members are directly involved," Father Harris gently clarified. "Your father will be participating, too." He looked at Dean. "And we'll need you and your brother in the room as well in case ... well, in case things get out of hand." _Things have been out of hand_, Dean thought bitterly.

As Sam approached, the priest found his way back into Julie's room, leaving Janelle alone with the Brothers Winchester. She smiled up at them, hoping to exert positive energy, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd thought positively.

"So," she breathed, "What should I expect?" Sam and Dean shared uneasy looks, and Dean shrugged.

"Well, demons are very unpredictable," he said.

"They never speak the truth," Sam added.

"And when they do speak, it can be in a language you've never heard," Dean went on.

"It'll make Julie a lot stronger than any other human ..." Janelle put her hand up.

"Basically ... just a walk in the park, huh?" she jested, causing the brothers to smirk halfheartedly.

"We're ready for you now," Father Staite announced, poking his head out of Julie's room. Sam immediately headed inside, intentionally leaving his brother in the awkward silence of the hallway with Janelle.

"After you," Dean said timidly, motioning toward the door. Janelle smiled, starting inside, but then twirled around, grabbed Dean's face in her hands and kissed him like she would never again kiss another man. "What was that for?" Dean ignorantly asked. Janelle sighed, her hands still cupping his rough cheeks, and descended to the flats of her feet.

"I just ... don't want to regret not doing that later on," she confessed, and then she disappeared into Julie's room without another word.

Seconds later, after gathering his thoughts and cooling his hormones, Dean entered as well, closing and locking the door behind him. Janelle and Spencer were each prepared to hold Julie's shoulders, the priests were standing on Janelle's side of the bed with their bibles and bottles of holy water, and Sam and Dean remained near the door.

"Remember not to be afraid of it," Father Harris said. "It can feed off of your fear and your weaknesses."

"I got a bad feeling," Sam whispered to Dean. Dean looked up at him incredulously.

"What?" he exclaimed, though whispering. "The kid with the psychic twinkle has a _bad feeling_?" Sam ignored him, and Dean reluctantly focused his attention on the exorcism as it began.

Father Harris traced a cross over Julie's forehead as she lay motionlessly on the bed with eyes closed. He then crossed himself and sprinkled holy water on everyone in the room, catching Sam in the eye.

"Careful ... you don't want to get all puffy," Dean joked, still whispering.

"I hate you," Sam muttered, rubbing his eye. Janelle glanced back at Dean and he smirked, winking at her. She didn't return the playfullness, though, and he felt that his actions, for the first time ever, had been inappropriate.

After praying to himself, Father Harris finally began to speak, "Do not keep in mind, O Lord, our offenses or those of our parents, nor take vengeance on our sins." More praying in silence. "... and lead us not into temptation."

"But deliver us from evil," Staite interjected.

"Save your servant," Harris said.

"Who trusts in you, My God."

"Let her find in you, Lord, a fortified tower."

"In the face of the enemy."

"Let the enemy have no power over her."

"And the son of iniquity be powerless to harm her. Lord, send her air from your holy place, and watch over her from Sion."

"Lord, heed my prayer."

"And let my cry be heard by you."

"The lord be with you."

Julie's eyes suddenly opened, filled with red liquid and hatred. She didn't look at anyone particular, just let her eyes roam the room leisurely. Sam and Dean knew not to look into her eyes, but neither could help themselves.

"I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacked this servant of God," Father Harris proceeded, his voice becoming more powerful and thereby gaining a rise out of Julie, "By the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our Lord for judgment, that you tell me by some sign your name, and the day and hour of your departure."

Julie began to laugh - a girly, sweet chuckle - and frightened those around her, especially Janelle.

"I command you, moveover, to obey me to the letter," Harris continued, "I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness; nor shall you be emboldened to harm in any way this creature of God, or the bystanders, or any of their possessions." He crossed himself and then Julie's forehead, lips and chest.

Julie's homicidal crimson eyes focused on the people in the room. She started first with Spencer; eyeing him hard, striking fear into his weakened heart.

"In the name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord," Father Harris yelled, "Strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, mother of God, of blessed Michael the Archangel, of the blessed apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil!"

Julie's eyes turned to Sam next, lingering there for a moment. She smiled at him, and Sam shivered.

"Such a pretty girl," she remarked, and both Winchesters knew of whom she spoke. "Pretty even without skin ... charred flesh ... she smells wonderful." Sam gulped, fighting back tears and harsh rebuffs.

Julie's eyes left Sam and moved to Dean, though she didn't remain there for long before turning to the priests. Each one she looked at, each one seemed to bore her, and then she came to Janelle. She smiled again, brandishing blood-crusted teeth. Tears slid down Janelle's cheeks as Julie's head turned back to Spencer.

"Time to die," she growled, ripping her arm free from the restraints and Spencer's grip, punching him hard in the face, sending him flying backward.

"Ah, man," Dean muttered, as Spencer crashed into him and sent him back into the wall he knew all too well. Father Staite came around to replace Spencer, but Julie kicked him squarely in the gut and sent him to the floor. She ripped her other arm free, clawing at Janelle's shirt, as Father Harris came to Janelle's aid. But Julie's darkened eyes turned to him, speaking silent words to him, paralyzing him where he stood.

Sam was jumping into action by now, running over to Janelle as Julie spoke three terrifying words, "_The Chosen One_." Julie grabbed Janelle's face and opened her mouth.

"No!" Dean screamed from underneath Spencer's heavy, forty-something-year-old body. Sam grabbed Janelle's waist and yanked with all his might, but Janelle's feet refused to budge from the floor.

The brothers watched in horror as, what appeared to be, red bugs flutter out of Julie's mouth and into Janelle's.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, pushing and kicking Spencer off of him.

"I c-" Sam stuttered, watching in amazement as the scene unfolded right in front of him. "I can't move."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean howled, unable to move anymore as well.

The last "bug" flew into Janelle's mouth and a bright light burst from within the center of the room, knocking everyone back. Sam still had a grip on Janelle and the two flew into the wall, Sam's body shielding Janelle's from harm. The priests were throttled as well, and Dean and Spencer met with the wall yet again.

And all was still.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Dean sucked in a sudden breath as his eyes shot open. The ceiling above him looked vaguely familiar, but why was he on the floor? What happened before he blacked out?

As he touched his forehead where blood trickled down the side of his face, memories came flooding back to him.

"_The Chosen_ _One."_

_Red bugs._

_White light._

_Darkness._

He sat up straight, immediately regretting doing so when he became unbearably dizzy. His eyes crossed as he surveyed the room: all the windows were broken from the inside, every trinket that had been placed on thee dressers were shattered along the walls, and every being lay unconscious on the floor, save for Julie, who was still in bed.

Dean's eyes whirled over to Janelle and Sam. Her head was resting on Sam's steadily-rising stomach and two tiny red rivulets stained her cheeks from her eyes to below her chin. Dean scrambled over to them as fast as his weak, nauseated body would allow, and he hovered over Janelle, his legs straddling hers. His hands moved to touch her face, but he recoiled slightly, afraid of what might happen if he laid his hands on her.

He pushed the fear aside as best he could and reached down to wipe the red from her cheeks with his thumbs. Not able to forego curiosity, he lifted one thumb to his mouth. Definitely blood, which brought back unwanted memories of little girls and mirrors. Next, he took a deep breath before separating her eyelids to find that her pupils were dilated so much so that there was hardly any white left in her eyeballs and the irises were black.

"Ah, damn it," Dean whined, plopping into a sitting position next to Janelle and in front of Sam. He gazed down at her hand for a few haunting seconds and then grabbed hold of it, laying it in his lap and massaging the palm with his thumb as if to make everything right again.

"You were after her all along," he said, speaking furiously to Elathan. "The whole goddamned time, you son of a bitch."

How could he have let this happen? He should've known. Julie was weak, anybody could see that, and Janelle was one of the stronger people he'd ever met. Of course Elathan would want her, but why didn't he see it? He fucked up. He fucked up bad.

"Dean?" He turned as Sam lifted his head from the floor. "What happened?" Dean smiled bitterly, putting his back to his little brother again.

"Turns out you're very useful as a human shield, my friend," he said nonchalantly.

"I mean with Julie," Sam sighed.

"He wants Janelle, Sam," Dean informed absentmindedly. "He wanted her the whole time … and we didn't even know it." Sam slowly sat up, gingerly lifting Janelle's head so that he could, and then he replaced it on his thigh.

"All right," Sam whispered, knowing that his brother had become extra sensitive toward this case, toward Janelle. "What do you wanna do?" He quickly glanced around the room, "Since we no longer have the assistance of the Catholic church." Dean did another once over on the room, now noticing what Sam had; the priests were missing.

"This thing wants to play hardball," Dean growled, holding tightly to Janelle's cold, lifeless hand, "I'll play hardball." He placed Janelle's hand on her stomach before standing.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, staring up at his pacing brother.

"I'm calling Malcolm," Dean said, looking down at Sam as if to challenge him. Sam's eyes widened.

"Wait a minute, what?" he asked incredulously. "Malcolm, as in Malcolm Rose?" Dean bent over and gathered Janelle into his arms and left the room. Sam scrambled to his feet and hurried after Dean.

"As in _Father_ Malcolm Rose," Dean corrected.

"Right," Sam nodded, annoyed, "And didn't he shoot you?"

"_Tried_ to shoot me," Dean once again corrected, "And he would have if I hadn't unloaded his gun before I slept with his daughter." Sam rolled his eyes.

"And what makes you think he's gonna help us?" he inquired. Dean laid Janelle on the couch.

"Doesn't matter if he wants to help us or not," he began, "Because Mal believes in Elathan. They've met a couple times."

"Dean, I just …" Sam started, but Dean growled, dropping his arms to his sides.

"Sam!" he yelled, turning his head to glare at Sam over his shoulder. Sam had only seen that frightening glint in his brother's eyes one other time, but it was still just as scary.

"I'm gonna go check on Julie and Spencer," he stuttered, shying away from Dean's obvious rampage.

Dean made sure that Janelle appeared as comfortable as possible before whipping out his cell phone, hoping it hadn't busted during any of his confrontations with the wall. When the blue backlight lit up upon opening the phone, he let out a sigh of relief and then proceeded to dial a number from the very back of his memory files. It took three tries, but he finally recognized the voice of Father Malcolm Rose.

"Mal? It's Dean," he said, full of determination as he watched Janelle lie immobile on the couch.

"Dean who?" Malcolm asked thoughtfully. Dean's eyes closed. He knew that Mal knew who he was speaking to.

"Dean Winchester," he reluctantly disclosed.

"Goodbye, Mr. Winchester," Malcolm said just before hanging up. Dean sighed, smiling only out of pure distress, and he redialed the number. He wasn't surprised when Malcolm answered. "I thought I made it abundantly clear to you, Mr. Winchester …" he began, and Dean rolled his eyes. There just wasn't time for this.

"It's about Elathan," he cut in. Malcolm's end was silent, but he hadn't hung up. "We've got the host, Mal."

"What happened?" Malcolm quietly inquired.

"It was a routine exorcism on a woman, then Sam and I found out it was … him."

"Is she a triplet?" Dean's eyes moved back and forth.

"Uh, yeah," he stammered. "But then he jumped into her sister."

"White-haired triplets?" Dean gulped.

"Yeah."

"Was there a light?" Malcolm's voice diminished into barely a whisper, which was less than soothing for Dean to hear.

"Yeah," he whispered as well. A long pause from Malcolm gave Dean heart palpitations.

"My God," Malcolm murmured. "It's happening." Dean gulped; he'd known it was happening, but hearing the fear in Malcolm's voice reminded him of everything that could happen if the demon within Janelle reigned victorious.

"I-I don't know what to do," Dean honestly admitted.

"Is your brother with you right now?"

"No, hold on." Dean covered the end of the phone. "Sam!" Seconds later, Sam came bounding down the staircase, and Dean held the phone between them just like the time when they'd listened to their dad's voicemail.

"Listen very carefully," Malcolm instructed. "The Light inside of … what's the girl's name?" Dean cleared his throat.

"Janelle," he answered.

"The Light inside of Janelle will battle with the darkness inside of her." Dean rubbed his forehead irritably. "The Light will use whatever it can to win."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean commanded.

"What light?" Sam asked, a little less demanding than his brother. "The light we saw in the room?"

"Is Janelle awake?" Malcolm asked, possibly dodging the question intentionally.

"Unconscious," Dean replied dryly.

"When she wakes up, she'll be different. It's quite possible she'll act like someone completely different altogether. But the real person, the real Janelle, is in there somewhere. Always keep that in mind." Dean gritted his teeth.

"I don't understand, Mal," he yelled. "I don't under_stand_!"

"Get her here as fast as you can," Malcolm went on.

"There?" Dean continued yelling. "As in New Mexico?"

"Elathan needs exorcised and you two aren't nearly capable enough to do it." As if Sam and Dean didn't know they were ill-equipped for battling Elathan. Dean waved the cell phone around angrily before bringing it back to his ear.

"How long do we have before the battle … ends?" Sam asked.

"It can last five minutes or it can last five years. I don't know. It all depends on The Light and Janelle's will to fight." The brother's shared a look.

"All right, we'll be there," Dean said quickly, clicking the phone shut.

"Dean, what?" Sam inquired, eyes wide. "It'll take a week to get there." Dean turned to him with an arched eyebrow.

"Seventy-two hours," he said, "And that's if I don't get pulled over."

"Dean, seriously …"

"What, Sam?" Dean growled. "You wanna fly? You wanna take a possessed woman on an _airplane_?" Sam sighed irritably.

"I just don't see why Malcolm can't come here," he explained. "Do you have any idea how dangerous it's gonna be with Elathan riding in our backseat for seventy-two hours?"

"Malcolm doesn't leave his church, Sam, you know that."

"Even if the fate of … the _world_ were at hand?"

"Sam, I really don't need this right now," Dean sighed. "Now make yourself useful and go pack Janelle a bag."

"What?" Sam squeaked.

"No, never mind. I'll pack the bag. I know how you get around women's underwear." Sam wondered how Dean could be under so much stress but still find the exact wrong moment to crack a joke. It really must have been part of Dean's charm.

"What do you want me to do then?" Sam asked, deciding that going along with Dean was a lot easier than arguing with him.

"Try to wake up Spencer and let him know what's going on," Dean said, heading up the stairs.

"You mean that we're kidnapping his daughter?" Sam said.

"Yeah, and if he doesn't wake up before we're ready to leave, write a note." Sam blinked slowly, almost finding it hard to believe that Dean would actually take someone's daughter across the country after leaving her father only a note. But then he remembered who his brother was: Dean Winchester, Do It His Way Or Hit The Highway extraordinaire.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

Dean jogged down the hall on the top level of the house to Janelle's room. More memories – no, dreams – bombarded him as her scent filled him to the brim and he almost passed out. He was terribly disoriented from the beatings he'd received lately, but he'd long since been relying on pure adrenaline to keep him awake, alert and on his feet. When his adrenal gland was sucked dry, he would inevitably crash. Hard.

Opening her closet with the intention of grabbing whatever was in front of him, he paused, gazing at the colorful wardrobe that simply screamed Janelle – bright tee-shirts, tight jeans, multi-colored belts and several scarves and hats. Curiously and quite unknowingly, Dean gingerly took the sleeve of a neon green sweater and brought it to his nose where he inhaled deeply. He was quickly overwhelmed by _pretty_, his headache and dizziness that he nearly tipped over, but he grabbed hold of the crossbar before he had a chance to lose his balance. He pressed his face into his lifted arm and closed his eyes, willing away the pain with the power of what little mind capacity he had left. Dad had trained him well for this and he realized that for the first time when he began to feel minor relief from it all.

"Dean!" Sam called, hurrying into Janelle's room. He caught his brother in that vulnerable position and he expected Dean to reclaim a manlier stance and pretend nothing was wrong, but he didn't move an inch. Instead, Dean used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and then he rested his cheek there as he gazed at the floor.

"What, Sam?" he asked groggily. Sam was about to ask his brother if he was all right, but he bit his tongue.

"Spencer's awake," he said. Dean nodded, clearing his throat, and he reluctantly let go of the crossbar.

"Did you talk to him?" he inquired, yanking a handful of clothing from the closet and tossing them onto Janelle's bed. _Janelle's bed_.

"Yeah, he's not exactly a fan of us taking his possessed daughter on a road trip," Sam explained. Dean's jaw muscles flexed furiously as he turned to his little brother.

"If we're going to work together, Sam, you need to grow a backbone," he said. Sam's face hardened.

"I'm sorry I can't be the heartless hunters you and Dad seem to be," he retorted. Dean stalked over to him, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"Not now," he warned.

One more glare at his younger brother and then he headed for Julie's room. Sam glanced around Janelle's room, deciding to handle the packing for Dean, who was a definite candidate for a heart attack at the moment. He found a bag on the floor of the closet and carefully packed the clothes from the bed. He didn't know how long they'd be gone, so he filled the bag with as many pairs of jeans and shirts as would fit. Then he remembered undergarments as he glanced at the top dresser drawer. Dean's words echoed in his mind.

"I'm not weird," he mumbled exasperatedly, yanking the drawer opened and grabbing a handful of whatever was there. He stuffed them into the bag as well and zipped it shut only after he noticed nothing in that handful was silk. Then he wondered why in the hell he paid attention to this fact. Okay, maybe he was weird.

Sam carried the slightly heavy bag downstairs and dropped it onto the couch where Janelle had been sleeping. He looked up, spotting her at the window gazing out with a stoned expression of longing. Her dainty, delicate hand rested on the window pane, and Sam's eyebrows knit together sadly.

"Janelle?" he asked softly. She turned her head, her innocent smile brightening the room.

"Janie," she whispered. Sam tilted his head curiously, but he nodded understandingly.

"Okay …" he said quietly, friendly. "Do you know who I am?" She turned to him, walking over to him, and the toes of her shoes touched his. She stood up on her tip toes, her eyes examining Sam very closely. He gazed down into her emerald orbs and he knew he was looking and speaking to a completely different person, just as Father Rose had predicted.

"Sammy," she finally said, smiling wildly. Her voice had been diminished to child-like along with her eyes, which now seemed a lot less experienced, younger. Sam smiled despite these revelations. "Sammy's pretty." Sam blushed slightly, his eyes falling, and Janelle tilted her head to her shoulder and leaned forward so that, despite looking down, he was looking at her. "Sammy's sad," she said, her voice reflecting said sadness. "Why are you sad?" Sam shook his head.

"We're going on a road trip," he said, trying his absolute hardest to sound excited. "You want to come?" He was using a very sweet, very young tone of voice, but he felt it was necessary. He felt he was now dealing with a child. Her face brightened so quickly and her hands clasped together in front of her chest.

"Road trip!" she cried, practically bouncing. "In shiny Priscilla?" Sam cocked his head, and she pointed to Dean's Impala.

"Oh, the car!" Sam exclaimed. "Yeah, we're going in that car."

"Kay," Janelle breathed, still smiling incredibly.

"Get the hell out of my house, you bastard!" Sam and Janelle jumped, turning to the staircase just as Dean jogged down them with a box in his hand and a very large, very angry Spencer Markem on his heels.

"Come on, we're going," Dean grumbled, grabbing his jacket from the floor.

"Dean," Janelle beamed. Dean stood up and looked at her. He gazed closely, knowing right off that she was someone different.

"Take her to the car, Sam," he instructed, cupping her face with his left hand. Janelle grinned, leaning into his warmth, but his hand was knocked away by Spencer.

"Stay away from my daughter, you crazy son of a bitch," he demanded, retracting his fist, completely ready to knock Dean into the next county. Janelle jumped in front of Dean, putting her hands on her father's chest.

"No," she said softly, and Spencer immediately lost his anger to be replaced by sadness. Janelle smiled, her hands reaching behind and above her to Dean's face where they brushed over him gently, almost poking him in the eye several times. "Dean can help."

"You can't go, Janelle," Spencer cried. "I won't let you." Janelle's smile suddenly dropped, her eyes fixing in a deathly glare on Spencer, and Sam tilted his head.

"Yes, you will," she said sternly but quietly, "Because you don't know what else to do, _Daddy_." Sam glanced urgently at Dean, and both knew that time was running out.

"Spencer," Sam decided to intervene, "Janie will be fine. We're just taking her to someone who can help her. Someone we _know_ can help her." Spencer walked over to the couch, sat down and put his head in his hands. Dean motioned toward Spencer and he removed Janelle's hands from his face as he ushered her toward the front door.

"Dean's going to drive Priscilla," Janelle gleamed, practically skipping toward the Chevy.

"Yes, I am," Dean said proudly, whipping out his keys to unlock the back door. Janelle happily hopped in and turned to look up at Dean. He gazed down his nose at her as he twiddled the keys in his hand; she looked so fragile, so small, so helpless.

"You'll take care of me," she spoke. Dean leaned inside the car close to Janelle.

"I promise," he said, nodding. Janelle grinned, tilting her head.

"I know," she whispered pointedly. Dean tore his eyes from her and slammed the door shut.

"Sam!" he called. Seconds later, Sam exited the home with Spencer behind him, but Spencer remained in the doorway. Dean was thrilled that he wouldn't have another confrontation with the man.

"We'll call you every hour, Mr. Markem," Sam said, walking backward.

"On _my_ phone?" Dean grumbled.

"Shut up," Sam hushed, waving Spencer goodbye. Janelle's father was frozen. Sam opened the back door and handed Janelle a stuffed bear. Dean watched curiously.

"Your dad said you liked it," Sam smiled. Janelle's eyes grew huge and she gratefully accepted the bear.

"His name is Elvis," she said. Dean rolled his eyes and climbed into the driver's seat.

"Elvis and Priscilla, ain't that a peach," he muttered. "Get in the car, Sam." Sam started away, but Janelle grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer.

"What is it?" Sam wondered. Janelle reached up and fixed a few stray hairs on his head.

"Sammy's pretty," she said.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

Putting the Markem Hell House in his rearview mirror was easy for Dean Winchester, but putting miles between the house and mirror seemed a difficult task. He glanced into the side mirror as the house grew smaller, and suddenly New Mexico was a world away. _Seventy-two hours_, he told himself over and over. _We'll make this trip in seventy-two hours_.

Sam snuck peeks at his brother now and again. He'd seen Dean angry, he'd seen him yell and scream, and he'd seen him save lives including Sam's. But he was unsure whether or not he'd seen Dean so involved. Sure, he devoted his entire energy into every case, but there was something just not right about this job. Something off.

"So," Sam started, turning his head to look at Dean. Dean hardly glimpsed at Sam, his right hand readjusting its grip on the steering wheel, his elbow on the door, and his head resting on his fist. He was obviously exhausted. "What's in the box?"

Dean quickly glanced at the box. "Tapes," he said. "I grabbed all the cassettes out of Janelle's room. If she has an … episode, I'll put one on and see if it calms her down."

Sam nodded, knowing Dean was referring to the epileptic seizures that some possessed people went through, which fueled the fires of skeptics everywhere, who claimed possession wasn't real, but that the people were simply suffering from epilepsy.

"Sounds like a plan," Sam lied, pulling the box onto his lap. He smirked after reading the artists on the cassettes. "Did you read these names?" Dean shook his head. "Listen to this … INXS, Mötley Crüe, Metallica, Cinderella, LA Guns, Heart, Nelson …"

"Heart?" Dean questioned. "Let me see that." He snatched the tape from his brother and read the titles of the tracks. "I love that song."

"You like Heart?" Sam wondered, his eyebrows creasing.

Dean's face scrunched in confusion. "What?"

"Well … they didn't have mullets or overdose on heroin."

Dean tossed the tape back into the box. "Shut up," he mumbled. Now that he'd read the name of the song that he'd always found to be quite catchy, it became stuck in his head.

"It was a rainy night," Janelle suddenly began to sing softly as she stroked the bear's head. "When he came into sight. Standin' by the road … with no umbrella, no coat."

Dean turned completely in his seat to look at Janelle, and she glanced up at him, smiling sweetly. The song she sang was the very song stuck in his head.

"What?" Sam asked.

Sirens blared from behind the Impala, and Sam and Dean stared out the back window at the blue and red flashing lights.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled, coming to a slow stop on the side of the road.

"I bet Spencer called the cops," Sam suggested.

Dean took a deep breath to calm his anger, fearing he might actually give the cop a what for. He realized he wouldn't have time when two cops jumped out from the squad car with weapons drawn on the Impala.

"Show me your hands!" an officer shouted.

Dean and Sam glanced at each other.

"I think blaming the local fraternity is out of the question," Sam dryly commented.

Dean sighed, leaning forward, and placing his face in his hands against the steering wheel.

"What do we do, Sam?" he quietly asked.

Sam was taken aback by this sudden inquiry; his brother never asked him what should be done on a job. If this was any other case, Dean would have already been out of the car with his hands behind his head, rattling off some bullshit story to keep from going to jail.

"Let me see your hands _now_!" shouted the officer, who now had three more cop cars as backup.

Sam let out a frustrated breath, turning forward in his seat. He scratched his head, failing at coming up with anything as slick as the normal Dean would have.

"I think we better do what they say," he reluctantly admitted. Sam and Dean shared a concerned look, both knowing there was no way to weasel out of a kidnapping charge. Especially if Janelle …

"No," she said softly but urgently. The brothers spun to face her. "Stay here." She lovingly stroked the bear's head. "They won't shoot with me in the car." She was right, but that didn't make things any better for the Winchesters.

"We can't just sit here, Janelle," Dean grumbled, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white and threatened to pop through the skin.

"Janie," Sam corrected, whispering. Dean looked over to him angrily. "It's Janie … now, anyway."

Dean knew what he meant, but he didn't acknowledge the fact. He just wanted to drive and get the hell out of Ryan's Bluff, Tennessee. Was that really asking too much?

"Make them come to Priscilla," Janelle whispered, her tiny voice emanating pain from Dean's aggression toward her. Or maybe it was fear, Sam couldn't tell. But he did know that he would have to have a little talk with Dean about his anger and his frustration and his hostility toward Janelle, who'd done nothing to him.

"So they can shoot us?" Dean retorted.

"Dean, come on," Sam gently intervened.

Janelle shook her head. "They won't shoot," she said.

Dean rolled his eyes and threw his head back dramatically, slamming his fists against the wheel. Janelle jumped, hugging the bear closer to her body, and Sam's face hardened. He suddenly knew what it was like to be a parent.

"Step out of the vehicle and put your hands in the air!" an officer shouted.

"All right, let's do it," Dean finally decided.

Sam opened his mouth to object as he glanced back at Janelle, who shook her head, gazing up at him with heartbreakingly sad eyes. "Dean …" he started.

"Get out of the car!" Dean commanded, glaring at his brother. Sam's mouth again opened for protest, but Dean cut him off, "Get out of the _car_!"

Sam inhaled deeply through his nostrils, turning back to Janelle. "We'll be right back, Janie," he said gently. "Don't move."

Janelle nodded, staring down at the floorboards.

Sam and Dean extended their hands out the windows and opened the doors from the outside. Following instruction, their hands locked behind their heads and they walked very slowly to the back of the car leaving the doors opened.

"Down on your knees!" the cops yelled simultaneously.

The brothers complied, descending to their knees on the hard pavement, and then another car door opened with the sound of crunching metal.

"Janelle!" the cop directly in front of Sam and Dean called.

No wonder they were so adamant about saving her; they knew her personally. Dean mentally kicked himself in the ass for not realizing that everybody in town was on a first-name basis with everybody else in town. He rolled his eyes again, his head lulling from side to side.

"Sammy and Dean aren't in trouble," Janelle declared, walking toward them. She stepped between the brothers, placing her hands on their bent elbows. "They didn't do anything wrong, sheriff."

Dean scowled at the sheriff, Sam didn't make eye contact.

"Janelle, we got a call from your daddy sayin' that you was kidnapped by two men in a black Impala."

Sam cleared his throat to keep from laughing; the sheriff, of course, had to possess a thick Southern accent and sound like he was schooled only three years of his life.

"Daddy's got it all wrong," Janelle continued, her fingers playing on the brothers' arms.

Dean gulped, wishing like hell he'd put on a long-sleeved shirt so that her soft fingers wouldn't send tingles throughout his body.

"You're not in trouble?" the sheriff inquired, lowering his weapon, which had been trained on Dean since he'd stepped out of Priscilla.

Janelle smiled sweetly, shaking her head. "Never was," she confirmed. "Sammy and Dean are my friends. They're going to help me."

The sheriff moved closer to her and spoke quietly. "Are you sure, Janelle?"

"Yes." Janelle met the sheriff's gaze for a moment before he ordered his backup to lower their weapons and leave.

Sam and Dean slowly came to their feet, rubbing their sore knees and brushing the dirt from their clothes.

"Thanks, Janie," Sam breathed, watching the cops pull away in their decorated vehicles.

Janelle's eyes narrowed as she stared after the sheriff's car. "He's going to die soon," she said. Sam and Dean looked at her as she tilted her head. "He doesn't even know it."

Sam licked his dry, chapped lips and took Janelle's arm gently into his. "Come on," he said, pulling her back to the Impala. "Let's go." Janelle suddenly gasped, yanking her arm from Sam's grasp. "What?" he asked. "What is it?"

"Hot," she breathed incredulously with wide eyes glued to the ground. "So hot … blood …" She looked up at him. "Blonde."

Sam's face went blank as he remembered that night. Jessica. On the ceiling. Dripping blood. Gripping fire. Death. Dean.

"She was so pretty," Janelle went on.

Sam swallowed hard, fighting back tears and the awful urge to tell her to shut up.

"Let's go, Janie," Dean interrupted, his voice taking on an odd softness and friendliness. He cautiously took her hand into his, and her troubled, watered eyes met his. He felt stabbed through the heart and punched in the stomach. Why in the hell was she making him feel this way? They'd only shared one kiss, one damned kiss, nothing else. Nothing else.

Fuck, he was only trying to convince himself.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

"Fuck."

Rain. Of course it had to rain. The sun had long since set and there was hardly any traffic on the road, but the pouring rain made driving conditions less than desirable. Dean flipped on the windshield wipers, sat up in his seat, and took a deep breath. He never minded the rain; in fact, he happened to enjoy the weather on any other day, but the rain now would lengthen the time it would take to get the hell out of Tennessee.

Sam lay back against his seat, watching the fat drops spit against the window. Janelle's earlier comment had reminded him of his own mortality, of Janelle's mortality, and of Dean's. But that wasn't exactly what was bothering him now. He hated that she could obviously see into him, see what he was thinking, and what he was feeling.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice was somewhere off in the distance, but Sam ignored it. All he could see was Jessica's sweet smiling face and all he could hear was her soft, silky voice. "Sam?"

Sam jumped, turning to Dean. "What?" he asked.

"You all right?" Dean inquired, though he was pretty positive that Sam wouldn't admit when he wasn't okay, just like Dean would never admit it if he wasn't okay.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam sighed, scooting up in the seat.

Dean nodded, expecting such an answer, but the car had stayed quiet for too long, now he needed noise, and he wasn't in the mood for music. He glanced in the rearview at Janelle; she slept soundly, the bear still in her arms, and a quiet peacefulness surrounding her. He hoped she would remain this way for the entire trip.

Sam pulled out his palm pilot. It had been quite a while since he'd corresponded with friends he hardly knew anymore.

Dean's cell phone began to ring and he almost decided against answering it, but then he thought about his father calling. He lifted his hips, retrieved the flip phone from his pocket, and opened it. His eyes shifted from the road to the phone, to the road and back to the phone.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered.

Sam looked at him. "What?" he asked.

Dean passed the phone to his brother, and Sam read the two sets of numbers. "It's coordinates," Dean clarified.

Sam's eyes grew in size as he stared at Dean. "From Dad?" he questioned.

"Who else?" Dean shrugged.

Sam read the numbers over and over before shaking his head. "Well, where do they point?" he asked.

Dean was about to make a smartass remark about not knowing the destinations of every coordinate on the fucking map, but Janelle cut him off.

"Up," she said, and the men turned to her.

Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head. Janelle was a damned good kisser, possibly a damned good lay, and damned beautiful, but Janie was starting on his damned nerves.

Sam opened the map in his lap so that he could find the correct numbers around the edges and connect them to a common point.

"At least we know Dad's okay," Dean said.

Sam sighed irritably, shifting in his seat. "How do you know they're from Dad?" he asked.

"Come on, Sam. Who else do you know that's gonna send us coordinates?"

"A man that blew up the toaster _and_ the coffee machine at the _same_ time doesn't really come to mind first, Dean," Sam said.

"Don't start, Sam," Dean warned.

"Why doesn't he just call us if he's sending coordinates?" Sam went on.

"You know Dad's got his reasons," Dean explained.

"Yeah? Well, I'm getting pretty sick and tired of Dad's reasons," Sam growled angrily.

Dean's teeth clenched and then he chewed on his bottom lip. "You know what, Sam?" he snarled. "I'm getting pretty sick and tired of your mouth."

Sam turned to him, opening his mouth to respond with something equally as nasty.

"Stop," Janelle intervened.

Dean's large, angry eyes returned to the road, dropping the argument with his baby brother, but already planning on picking it back up later on.

"If only we could stop arguments that easily back home," Sam commented, tracing the lines from the top and side of the map.

Dean glanced his way, silently agreeing. "So, where do the coordinates point?" he asked.

Sam took a deep breath, sitting up straight. "I'll give you three guesses, but you're only gonna need one."

Dean nodded knowingly. "Up?" he questioned airily.

Sam nodded. "Louisville, Kentucky." Dean nodded slowly. "So, what do we do?" Sam asked, closing the map.

"What do you mean?" Dean retorted.

"Are we going to Louisville?"

Dean's expression was that of bewilderment, staring at his brother with utter astonishment; eyes wide, mouth open, brows arched. "Has your mind taken a walk off a map, Sammy?" he interrogated. "Hell no we're not going to Louisville!"

"You're kidding, right?" Sam said. "Dad just sent you coordinates and you're not going?"

"Since when did you ever listen to what Dad said?" Dean demanded.

"Not me, Dean. You. You always go where Dad tells you." Dean glared at him. "That's why you were always the perfect soldier son."

"Sam, I swear to God, I'm gonna drive this car off a fuckin' cliff with the next word out of your pompous mouth."

Sam's lips curled into a snarl and he opened his mouth to return the insult when a soft hand was clamped over it.

"Shh …" Janelle whispered into his ear, and he could feel her wet cheek press against him. "Please Sammy, no more fighting. No more."

Sam nodded, gently squeezing her wrist and removing her hand from his mouth. "I'm sorry, Janie," he whispered, placing a soft kiss to the palm of her hand, "And Dean's sorry, too." When Dean didn't immediately apologize, Sam smacked his arm, causing his brother to jump.

"Yeah, I'm-I'm sorry, too … Janie," he forced out, making it a point not to look at her after hearing her sniff. He knew he would not be able to handle her crying.

All was quiet again for a while with Dean contemplating whether or not to risk traveling to Kentucky, which was so obviously out of the way. It just wasn't in the cards; not with an internal battle, which would more or less decide the fate of the world, going on inside of Janelle that could end at any time. Not happening. Sorry, Dad.

An almost inaudible rumble was heard from the backseat area and the brothers slowly turned to Janelle. She seemed just as confused as they, as she lifted the bear away from her body and looked down. Dean put two and two together and then clicked on his turn signal.

"What?" Sam asked.

"There's a rest stop up here," Dean replied, pointing his finger. "We'll get her something to eat and then get the hell out of this state."

Dean veered off the highway onto the exit for the rest stop. Finding a parking spot right in front of the diner area, he switched off the ignition and sighed, rubbing his eyes. God, he was so tired and sore and just irritated as hell with where he was. He hated being bested, especially by some fucking demon.

"Stay here," Sam said. "I'll take her and we'll bring you something back."

Dean shook his head. "I'm fine," he grumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're not Superman, Dean," he said. "Take a break."

Dean looked at him, briefly considering taking Sam's advice, and then hating himself even more for doing so (if that were possible). "Don't let her out of your sight, Sam," he ordered.

Sam smirked, shaking his head, and got out of the car. He opened the back door for Janelle and she climbed out after planting a sloppy kiss on Dean's cheek.

"Bye, Dean!" she beamed, waving.

Dean raised his hand without a wave and then pointed at her. "Stay with Sam!" he called, as the door was slammed shut. He watched his brother and Janelle head toward the diner doors and he didn't relax until they were safely seated inside. "This-this is just a bad idea," he mumbled to himself, lying back against the seat. "Bad, bad idea."

Janelle shouldn't be sitting inside a public diner in her condition, Dean decided. She could have had a seizure, Elathan could possibly have come out to play, or she could have played her psychic card and told a waitress when her husband was going to bite the dust. And Sam was hardly capable enough to handle a potentially hazardous situation. So, really, what in hell was Dean doing sitting in the car while they ate without him?

Dean pulled the keys from the ignition and got out, trusting that none of the hillbillies around had the balls to try and hotwire Priscilla once he presented himself in the manliest way possible by darkening the diner's doorway, eyeing each customer closely before sauntering over to the table Sam and Janelle were occupying.

Janelle's face brightened when she saw Dean approaching, and Sam didn't have to turn around to know who she was grinning at. He had to hand it to Dean, though, for waiting so long before giving into his stubbornness.

Dean started to sit next to his brother, but Janelle pulled at his T-shirt, silently commanding that he fill the seat next to her. He plopped down into the booth, shaking Janelle's thin frame, and looked across the table at his brother.

"What took you so long?" Sam inquired, raising his brows inquisitively.

"Shut up," Dean retorted, glancing up at the elderly waitress.

"What can I get ya, hon?" she smiled, proudly showing off her Southern accent.

Dean was so far finished with Southern accents.

"Coffee would be great," he said. As she walked away, Dean swatted at something tickling his ear, having no idea that it was Janelle assaulting him.

Sam smirked and looked down. "You're not hungry?" he asked Dean.

"I was, but there's nothing like the fresh scent of urine and beer to crush the old appetite," Dean responded.

Sam breathed a laugh, leaning back into his booth and placing his arm on the back of it. Dean swatted at his ear again, this time recoiling from whatever it was attacking him.

"We shouldn't be here, Sam," he sighed, setting his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands.

"She's normal, Dean," Sam said. "She's just a ... younger version of herself." Dean stared blankly at the younger man, so Sam continued with his analysis. "I don't think she's a completely different person like Malcolm said. She's ... still Janelle, but ... four-years-old."

Dean waved at another poke at his ear, this time coming in contact with Janelle's finger. He glanced at her incredulously, his hands held up in confusion. "What?" he exclaimed. Her eyebrows knitted together and her lips pursed. Jesus, she did look like an uncompromising toddler.

"It won't come loose!" she complained.

Dean's eyes widened as he shook his head in agitation. "What?" he asked.

"The memory!"

Dean gawked at her for several moments, blatantly dumbfounded by the entire conversation, and then he turned back to Sam without another word. Janelle stayed still for several instants before proceeding her mission of 'freeing the memory'.

"You're never having kids," Sam said, entertainment stamped all over his face.

"Thank you, Sam, for stating the obvious," Dean sarcastically remarked. "Is that what Stanford taught you all them years?"

Sam was just a bit insulted, but Janelle's onslaught on Dean's head could not deter his amusement.

"No," Janelle interrupted, yanking something hard from Dean's head. Could it be the memory she'd been referring to? Sam wondered. "Stanford taught Sammy to argue." She smiled, nodding proudly, as she pressed her palm flat to the table. She then grabbed Dean's hand and slapped it there so that he was now holding down the invisible object. "He likes to argue."

"And he's damned good at it," Dean commented, regarding Sam with accusing eyes.

"Uh huh," Janelle agreed, grabbing the small salt shaker and unscrewing the lid. "Sammy's smart. Smarter than _you_ think, Dean." She looked at the older sibling. "He'll be a good lawyer."

Sam's lips curved into a sad smile as he scratched the back of his head, though he seriously doubted he would ever finish college, let alone become an accomplished attorney.

"_Will_ be," Janelle repeated.

Sam gazed at her. Could she actually see into his future?

Janelle tipped the salt shaker, and Dean immediately retracted his hand and grabbed it away from her.

"Dean ..." Sam started.

"No!" Janelle shouted, watching something fly through the air before reentering Dean's head. "Why did you do that?" Her voice saddened dramatically.

"You can't pour salt all over the table, Janie," Dean said, screwing the lid back on the shaker. "You can't waste salt. Salt's very important."

Sam's eyes narrowed as he watched the scene play out in front of him.

"But I didn't like that memory," she whispered. "I didn't like how it made you feel."

"What memory?" Dean questioned, lifting his arm and wrapping it comfortingly around Janelle's shoulders. She leaned into him, and Dean felt oddly uncomfortable as she snuggled against him.

"When Mary died."

Sam sat up straight, observing Dean's questionably calm reaction to the mention of their mother.

Dean took a deep breath, shifting in the booth. "Sometimes memories make or break a person," he explained. "In my case, they ..."

"Made you," Janelle finished.

Dean nodded.

Sam's eyebrows rose. Hell, maybe Dean would make a good father someday. Or maybe he was actually Superman.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

The sun was setting by the time the Impala made its way into Blytheville, Arkansas. Dean's eyes were hardly able to stay opened as he found the nearest motel, coming to a squeaky halt in the parking lot. The stop awoke Sam and he lifted his head.

"Where are we?" he asked, stretching his long frame within the small confines of the classic muscle car.

"Welcome to Blytheville, Arkansas," Dean tried shouting, but his voice had been reduced to crackling sleepiness. The look on Sam's face and the weight on Dean's eyes caused him to stop mid-sentence. "Just go get us a room, Sam."

Sam rubbed his face and sighed. "I'll be right back," he said, getting out and slamming the door shut behind him.

Dean took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and relaxing back against his seat. Suddenly, Dean's arms were involuntarily thrown up, his fingers locking around the steering wheel. No time to ask questions before small, soft hands clamped over his throat. Dean's brows arched furiously, his eyes widened to their full extent, and he gasped hard for air when he felt hot breath against his ear.

"You must not be very intelligent," Janelle growled, her voice taking on an odd English accent. "Otherwise you would not be stopping at a motel. Am I correct, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean could only gag and cough in response as his bloodshot eyes moved to the rearview mirror. Janelle's eyes were consumed by white save for the tiny black pupils, but he'd rather them white than red.

"I cannot hear you," she grumbled, her hands sealing his windpipe. Now he was receiving no air, and spots were flicking at the edges of his vision. He became frightened, truly frightened, for the first time since Sam's apartment burst into flames.

"Yes," Dean croaked. She relented, but only a bit.

"Yes, you _are_ unintelligent or yes, you would like to see this little girl die?" she commanded.

"No!" Dean exclaimed, finding hidden strength to turn his head and glare at her, though he was hardly able to see properly anymore.

"Then allow me to ask you a simple question, Mr. Winchester. Why are you _here_ when you know perfectly well that you could be _there_ in less than three days?"

"We're tired," Dean choked.

"Well, then I suppose that makes everything fine and right in the world!" Janelle snapped directly into his ear, and Dean winced. "She is not _well_, Mr. Winchester!"

Dean had no idea who he was listening to, but they were right. He should've known better. Why did he keep fucking up?

"Aw, dry your eyes," she quipped nastily. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and stop hating yourself or you will never get through this alive. Do you understand?" Dean nodded despite the pain and his temporary blindness. "Congratulations, your eyes are now opened, Mr. Winchester." She removed her hands, and Dean's arms fell from the steering wheel.

"Who are you?" he coughed.

Janelle climbed over the front seat and settled her arm behind Dean as her ungodly white eyes stared him down. "We sure made a pretty one," she commented, tickling the back of his head with her index finger.

"Tell me who you are," Dean repeated.

Janelle's eyebrows rose and she retracted her hand. "I happen to think you are in no position to be making demands," she said. Dean only glared at her, and she leaned forward as if to tell him a secret. "My name is Matthew ... and I am a guardian." She moved even closer. "Your guardian."

"Oh, really?" Dean sighed, disbelief written all over his face.

Janelle's smile widened. "You do not have to believe in me for me to believe in you, Mr. Winchester," she explained. She turned her head to see Sam leaving the motel office.

"So, what are you, like, a guardian angel?" Dean inquired.

"Something like that," Janelle muttered, turning back to him. "Get some sleep, Mr. Winchester, but be cautious. Do _not_ let your guard down for one second."

Dean noticed that this 'guardian' had not used one contraction since their conversation began.

"Why do you keep calling me 'Mr. Winchester'?" he wondered.

She smiled again. "Because unlike some other guardians, I prefer politeness," she said. "Now, catch me when I fall."

Dean hadn't the chance to ask what the 'guardian' was speaking of before Janelle's entire body became limp and she fell into his arms.

"Son of a ... bitch," Dean grumbled, trying to maneuver her into a sitting position next to him.

Sam climbed into the car and looked at his brother confusedly. "What happened?" he wondered.

Dean glanced at him. "Long story."

After being directed to the room, Dean grabbed he and Sam's tattered overnight bags along with Janelle's bag, carried them inside, and then plopped down onto the bed closest to the door. He fell back, closing his eyes. He'd never before been so thankful for a hard, rather uncomfortable, motel bed.

Sam, however, watched with interest as Janelle tip-toed throughout the small room, inspecting several objects. She got down on her knees in front of the television and her index finger poked at the screen. Thinking she might want the TV on, Sam pressed the power button.

"Turn it off!" Janelle screeched once the picture of a news anchor materialized.

Sam hurriedly did as he was told, and Janelle climbed to her feet, keeping an eye on the television as she headed toward the bathroom.

"So, what, does that mean we can't watch TV?" Dean asked, lifting his head to look at Sam.

Sam stared at his brother incredulously. "Why don't you pay attention to her, Dean?" he yelled. "Maybe you could learn something from her!"

Dean sighed, sitting up, and rubbed his face. "I think I've learned all I want to learn from her," he mumbled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced up at him. He hadn't planned on telling Sam about what happened in the Impala while he was checking in, but Sam would probably find out sooner than later, and Dean hardly wanted to have an argument about it.

"Well," he started, standing from the bed, "While you were checking in, Janelle sort of ..." He paused, tilting his head. "Well ..."

"What, Dean?" Sam urged.

"She sort of ... became ... someone else."

"What are you talking about?"

"She was possessed, but it wasn't Elathan talking to me," Dean explained. Sam stayed quiet to allow Dean his own time to confess. "She had these ... white eyes ..." he continued, gazing at the floor as he remembered the white irises and black pupils. Then he unintentionally recalled his fear, which caused him to shake his head and return his attention to Sam.

"So, what makes you think it wasn't Elathan?" Sam inquired.

"She said her name was Matthew," Dean slowly replied. "And ... assuming Matthew is male, he's ... my ..." He cleared his throat, now completely unsure of this entire explanation. The look on Sam's face was evidence enough that he sounded crazy.

"Dean's guardian," Janelle finished for him as she stepped out of the bathroom. The brothers turned to her. She was smiling despondently, the fingers of her left hand twiddling swiftly at her side.

"My-my what?" Dean stuttered.

"His what?" Sam reiterated.

"Dean's guardian," Janelle said, wondering aimlessly around the room. "He's very pretty ... like Dean. Blonde hair, blue eyes, white wings."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he closed his eyes, scratching his head. "I'm going to bed," he announced.

Before Dean could enjoy the euphoric state of sleep, he rummaged through the bag he and Sam had thrown together for Janelle only to find a few essentials were missing. It upset him more so than it should have due to his exhaustion and very short fuse.

"Are you kidding?" he grumbled angrily, jamming her clothes back into the bag.

"That's not very nice," Janelle said from the floor next to the bed.

"Well, I'm terribly sorry, sweet cakes, but me and my ignorant brother didn't bother to pack you anything to sleep in!"

Janelle's expression turned frightened, and Sam's teeth clenched. When Dean got tired, he got angry, and took it out on everyone around him.

"Why are you so mean to me?" she asked cheerlessly.

"I ..!" Dean started to yell, then stopped, his chin falling to his chest and a pissed-off smile flowing over his full lips. "I'm-I'm not trying to be mean to you," he sighed, walking around the bed and squatting down in front of her. Sam pretended to unpack while he listened to what Dean said. "I'm just angry and ... upset ... and ... I'm really tired ..."

"Then go to sleep, Dean Winchester," Janelle commanded, grabbing his face and pulling him closer to her. "You're too pretty to be so tired." And she smiled brilliantly.

Dean cocked his head to the side, staring into her green eyes, trying his hardest to figure things out, figure her out.

"You smile ... at the ... weirdest damned times," he said, grinning awkwardly.

Janelle's smile somehow widened and she moved closer to him, her nose brushing his. "There are no weird times to smile, Dean," she said, so softly that her tone almost brought him to tears, but Dean Winchester never cried. Never.

"Maybe you're right," Dean whispered, looking down and away. Her presence alone was enough to rattle the few nerves he had left, especially after meeting his 'angel', but staring into her inexperienced eyes was something entirely different.

"Oh, my God," Janelle whined, suddenly beginning to break down, much to the shock and confusion of Sam and Dean. "You're so sad."

Dean's grief-stricken eyes met hers again purely out of reflex and he wanted to look away again, but he couldn't find the strength to this time, as if Janelle had stolen his free will.

"How are you still alive?"

Sam finally stood from his bed and hurried over to Dean and Janelle. His brother could quite possibly have been Superman in disguise, but there was only so much a man could take. A man like Dean, anyway.

"Come on, Janie," he said, placing his hands beneath her arms and lifting her up. She fell against him, sobbing uncontrollably, as she clutched at his shirt.

"He can't breathe inside, Sammy," she wailed, trying to look over Sam's shoulder at Dean, but his height prevented her from doing so. "Dean's suffocating."

Sam listened to every word, but gave no response; he didn't know what the hell to say. If Janelle was speaking the elusive truth, then he and Dean shared similar feelings. Sam had always wanted to believe that no one had any idea how he was feeling about anything, which was why he never discussed his nightmares with Dean. Maybe he'd been wrong about his brother, terribly wrong, and terribly presumptuous.

"You can lay in my bed while Dean gets some sleep," Sam suggested. Janelle sniffed dolefully and wiped her wet face against Sam's T-shirt. Sam smirked, remembering when he did the same to Dean's T-shirts as kids when Dad spent late nights at the bar; except Sam wasn't going to smack Janelle upside her head like Dean had done him.

"I feel yucky," Janelle revealed, looking up at Sam.

"You want to take a shower?" Sam wondered.

"Can I take a bath instead?"

Sam smiled. "You can do anything you want, Janie," he told her.

While Sam aided Janelle in the bathroom, Dean retrieved his father's journal and idly leafed through the pages, though he wasn't reading or looking for anything important. Propping his arm up on the bed, as he still sat on the floor, he could still hear Janelle's words, and he had to pick them apart, had to interpret everything.

_He can't breathe inside, Sam_. Was that true? Of course it was true and he was in denial if he had to ask himself that. He'd been abandoned by the only four people in his life he ever and would ever care about: Mom, Dad, Sam and _her_.

_Dean's suffocating_. Correct. For 22 years, he'd been breathing with a brown paper sack over his nose and mouth, and as the years raged on, the bag was shrinking. And this new case with Janelle was clearly threatening to crumble his bag.

Sam exited the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and his shoulders slouched when he caught sight of his older brother still seated on the floor.

"Janelle's in the bath," he said. Dean just nodded. "I-I gave her something to sleep in." No nod this time. "Are you all right?"

Dean sniffed and cleared his throat, slamming the journal shut, and moving to sit on the bed. "I'm fine, Sam," he growled, untying his boots with a touch of anger.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sam knew in the back of his mind that he shouldn't press the issue, but Dean was his brother and he cared.

"No, thanks, Dr. Phil," Dean nearly yelled, stripping to his boxers and climbing into bed. "Save the psychoanalysis for my birthday."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

_He groans, feeling her nails scratch along his spine and lower back. She giggles that damned saccharine giggle and her head moves closer to his as they share a pillow. He massages her thigh, which is draped over his hip, he opens his eyes and, though it's still quite dark in the room, he can make out her smile. Just her smile, nothing else._

"_I guess maybe ... I should leave before a big man of about 40 comes in with a shotgun," he mumbles, but he makes no move to get out of bed._

"_No, stay," she begs, pulling him to her. _

_It's been a lifelong dream of his to have a woman beg him and it has every effect on him that he thought it would. _

"_Just until I fall asleep ... please?" _

_He smiles; a genuine, possibly noteworthy, smile, and he brushes the backs of his fingers along her soft cheek._

"_I'm sweet on you, kid," he says. _

_She breathes a laugh and removes his hand from her face. "Of course you are," she replies, as if she knows this is just sex, as if she knows he's probably lying. Holding his hand, she rolls over onto her other side and then she pulls his arm across her waist as a blanket. They're still lying on top of the covers and the heat from their sexual activity has dissipated._

_Dean cautiously scoots closer to her, his hips pressing into her backside, warming her with his jeans. He knows she's cold, but he also knows she's not interested in exerting energy to crawl under the blankets. He's not exactly awake either, though he's coherent enough to realize they could still be caught together._

_He's almost asleep when he feels a distinct grinding against his groin. He wonders for a moment if the rubbing isn't his own hand, but his arm is still wrapped around Janelle. It's her hips massaging him, getting him hard again._

"_What are you doing?" he stupidly asks. _

_She moans quietly, feeling him twitch. "I'm not doing anything," she answers innocently, her hand reaching back to his hip._

"_Mm ..." he nods, nibbling roughly on her earlobe. He slides his arm underneath her head as his other hand creeps down her bare stomach and slips beneath her boyshorts where his fingers encounter slick warmth. _

_Janelle gasps, grabbing his jeans in a fist. "No," she sighs, "Maybe you should leave." _

_It's way too late for that now._

"_I'm leaving," Dean mumbles into her shoulder, driving his hips into hers, flexing his fingers in the way he knows most, if not all, women love. She growls ... she fucking growls ... and her hand rubs his hip, as her thighs clench around his hand._

"_Fuck, Dean," she groans, snatching his free hand and thrusting his fingers into her mouth._

"_Jesus!" Dean nearly shouts, lifting his head and watching with wide eyes as her cheeks hollow and she sucks hard on his fingers. She said his name, she sucked on his fingers, and now she's rolling her hips in the most pleasing circular motion he's ever felt in his life. "That's so hot."_

_Dean allows only a few added seconds of her criminal mouth on his fingers before he regains control of the situation. He retracts his hand from between her legs, forcefully throws her onto her back and flings her leg aside so that he may maneuver between them._

"_You could have just asked nicely," she whispers, her hands sliding up his chest, her nails grazing his sensitive skin._

"_Where's the fun in that?" Dean asks, leaning over her body on his hands and knees. She shrugs immaturely, and Dean nods, having made a point. He dips his head and catches her wet lips in a physically fulfilling kiss even without the support of their tongues._

"_I thought you were leaving," she smirks, knowing damned well he isn't going anywhere for a long time. _

_Dean breathes a hard laugh, his eyes roaming over her body still clothed in bra and panties._

"_If you want me to leave, just say it," he growls, gazing hard into her eyes. She arches an eyebrow and shakes her head, sliding her arms around his neck. "Say it," he commands, grinding hard against her. She gasps, her nails digging into his shoulders, and her teeth clamp shut._

"_I want you to stay," she breathes, eyes closed as she licks her lips._

"_What? I didn't hear you," Dean says, massaging his hips into hers, tormenting her with the hard pressure but lack of rapidity. She moans this time, and he presses his index finger to her lips._

"_I want you to stay," she reiterates, opening her eyes. "Please." His eyes narrow and he knows his entire body is throbbing against hers. Jesus, that's what he wanted to hear. She smiles, discerning his arousal for being in control and needing to be begged. "Please," she says again, lifting her head so that her tongue can glide wetly across his lips. "Please stay, Dean."_

Dean jumped awake with an angry grunt, his head and right hand lifting off the bed. Fucking dreams. There was just no way any of that could have happened with Janelle. The dreams were just lucid hallucinations brought on by physical attraction and sleep deprivation. He should have been a psychiatrist.

"Shh!"

Dean's eyes blinked to clear his blurred vision and he caught sight of Janelle sitting at the small table near the door. Her bare legs were bent up to her chest, she still wore one of Sam's nicer button up shirts and a pair of his boxers, and she'd found the bag of M&Ms Dean kept in his duffel bag. Her alabaster hair lay in knots on her head and she looked tired, but she still smiled.

_There are no weird times to smile, Dean._

"What is it?" Dean asked, struggling to sit up.

Janelle shushed him again and pointed to Sam. "Sammy's sleeping," she whispered, nodding once and continuing to gnaw on the small candies.

Dean shook his head defiantly. "Sammy doesn't sleep," he mumbled, rubbing a hand over his matted hair.

Janelle grinned knowingly. "He does now," she boasted.

Dean cleared his throat. "Are you feeling okay today?" he asked. She stared at him with an arched eyebrow. "I'm sorry about last night, Janie. I don't ever … _ever_ want to hurt you. Do you understand that?"

"Be forgiving, Dean Winchester," she admonished, cocking her head to the side.

Dean's eyes narrowed and he looked down. He knew she probably meant be forgiving to himself, but that was just about the most impossible thing for Dean to do.

"I'm going to get in the shower, Janie," he murmured, throwing the blankets to the side and drowsily climbing out of bed. "Do you need me to wake up Sammy or will you be okay?"

Janelle looked at him, looked down and then back to him. "I'll be okay," she said, tightening her eyes in a curious gaze directed at Dean.

Dean paused a few beats, staring back at her, struggling to read her thoughts and feelings. He would hate nothing more than having to awake Sammy, who hadn't slept in months, for no good reason at all, but he was insecure about leaving Janelle unsupervised.

"All right," he finally conceded, "But if you need anything, wake up Sammy or just yell for me. Okay?"

Janelle's grin shook, rattled and rolled his nerves all the way to his very core, but something inside him propelled his legs into gear. He gathered clean clothes from his bag, chanced one last look at Janelle and headed into the bathroom.

Dean started the water, making sure the temperature was practically scalding before he began to remove his clothing. Tossing them aside, he stepped into the steaming shower and was embarrassed when he whimpered under the magical streams as they stung his back. A shower had never felt so invigorating, so delightful, so relaxing. He turned to face the shower head, placing his hands on the cold tile wall and dropping his chin to his chest. Tiny rivulets of water spilled down his nose and chin as he slowly rolled his head in circles. This was what he'd needed all along to make him feel real – like a human, like a man, like a hunter.

A clinking sound slithered into his ears; a resonance resembling that of a glass hitting carpeted floors. Dean shook it off, deciding it was probably Sam awaking from a nightmare and knocking something off the table with a flailing arm. Dean was just finishing shampooing his hair with the cheap motel imitation when he heard Sam scream. He'd heard Sam yell and shout before, but never scream like he was now.

"Dean!" he cried, and then he was cut off by the most sinister, malevolent howl Dean had ever suffered through. It was the shriek of a possessed woman closely corresponding with Julie's.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, jumping out of the shower and, forgoing his clothing, tried turning the doorknob – locked. "Sammy! Open the door!" He twisted and pulled and pushed and kicked with negative results. "Sam!"

"Dean!" Sam shouted just before a loud thump against the wall. His voice was cut off and replaced by gagging sounds all too familiar to Dean.

"Goddamn it!" Dean yelped, yanking on his jeans and zipping them enough to keep them on his hips and then he proceeded to kick the door with his bare foot. "Stay away from him!"

Three kicks and a bloodied foot later and the door burst open. Dean bolted into the room, but the ordeal was over. Sam sat trembling in the corner near the entry door, his arms wrapped around himself and his bottom lip quivering uncontrollably. For the moment, Dean forgot about Janelle as he hurried over to his brother to inspect him for injuries.

"Sammy?" he said quietly, positioning his hands gently on his brother's neck. Sam gave no answer. "What happened, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes suddenly met Dean's with a strange defiance and infiltrating terror. "Oh, no," he growled brashly, shaking his head angrily. "I won't see that again, and you can't make me!" he finished with a yell. He was acting like he was thirteen and Dean had just told him to take the trash out. "I won't!"

"Sam!" Dean interrupted, but Sam continued yelling, refusing to see again whatever he'd just witnessed, and the only thing Dean could think of was to backhand his brother in attempt at knocking sense into him.

Sam blinked thoughtfully. "Dean?" he asked.

Dean exhaled relief and yanked his brother to him for a quick hug.

"That hurt," Sam whispered.

Dean chuckled. "Sorry, Sammy, but you were hysterical." He pulled away and looked at Sam. "I had to shut you up somehow."

"And that was all you could think of?" Sam whined, clutching his jaw and moving it around in circles.

"You're welcome," Dean bitterly replied, swatting a hand at Sam as he turned around. "Now … where's Janie?"

Sam gulped and pointed a shaky finger. "She fell over there."

Dean took a deep breath and headed slowly over to the small area between the wall and the bed closest to the bathroom. Janelle's platinum hair eventually came into view in such a way that Dean knew she was lying face down on the carpet. He wasn't surprised – not with so many years of demonic possessions and exorcisms under his belt – as he cautiously rolled her over onto her back.

Janelle's hands were contorted into claws and held tightly against her chest and stomach and her head was turned to the side, causing her thyroid bone to almost protrude through her skin, but most unnerving of all were her eyes, which were completely drowned in crimson liquid most likely to be blood. Dean carefully placed his hands beneath her shoulder blades and began to lift her from the floor. Her entire body was stock-still – nothing bending, nothing shaking.

"Rigidity," Sam muttered, watching closely.

"_Rigidity_?" Dean exclaimed, struggling to bring Janelle's unmoving body into a standing position. "She's frozen solid, dude."

Using the wall, Sam pushed himself onto his feet. "He's not done yet," he whispered, staring with unblinking eyes at Janelle.

At his words, Janelle blinked, sending two streams of red down her cheeks, and she glared at Dean.

"Vos mos non servo suus, venator," she snarled, her right eyebrow trembling with every word. _You will not save her, hunter_.

Dean glared right back; his jaw muscles working over time to try and stop him from retorting back, but it was no use. "Ego mos transporto vos tergum ut Abyssus, everto," he growled. _I'll send you back to Hell, demon_.

Janelle's lips curled into a menacing, knowing smile.

"Don't talk to it, Dean!" Sam shouted.

"Capiam suus me," Janelle whispered. _I'll take her with me_. Dean wasn't deterred. "Ego sum magis validus quam vos umquam spes futurus." _I'm more powerful than you could ever hope to be_.

Dean's upper lip curled so high that his top teeth began to show, as he stepped closer to Janelle, closely touching his nose to hers. He was seething with fury, ready to burst, and Sam knew this is exactly what the demon wanted.

"Ostendo mihi," he whispered, raising his eyebrows. _Show me_.

Janelle's face closed the space between she and Dean, her lips brushing his as she spoke. "Vos volo video vidi visum quis ego operor?" she breathed. _You want to see what I can do_?

It was Dean's turn to smirk. "Etiam." _Yes_.

Sam hurled into action, grabbing the crucifix from the table next to the television, taking one large step over to Janelle and Dean and wrapping an arm around her throat as he pressed the cross to her chest. The howl Dean had heard in the shower escaped Janelle's delicate mouth as her skin sizzled beneath the holy object. Sam didn't relent until her body became limp and she fell back into his embrace.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Sam yelled at Dean, carrying Janelle to the bed and lying her down gently onto her back. "You know better than to have a _conversation_ with a demon, Dean!"

"I'm a big boy, Sam, I can take care of myself," Dean replied, moving back into the bathroom to retrieve his tee-shirt. Only then did he remember his foot was still bleeding. Oh well, he'd tend to it later.

"It's not you I'm worried about," Sam said. "Do you have any idea what could happen to Janelle if Elathan …"

"Yeah, I do," Dean quickly interrupted. "I know a thing or two about demonic possession, Sammy. I stuck around, remember?"

Sam tilted his head and his arms dropped at his sides. "You've got nothing better to say to me than to bring up my leaving for college," he pointed out. "When are you going to let that go, Dean? I'm here, aren't I? Helping you out!"

"Yeah, and it's only because ..!" Dean stopped himself immediately before speaking something he knew he would regret, but Sam knew what he would've said.

"Say it," Sam told him, shrugging.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing," he refused.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I didn't want to live under Dad's tyrannical rules, Dean," he went on, "So I went out and got my own life. I'm sorry that you're going to hold that against me for the rest of our lives."

Dean said nothing, but he gave Sam raging glares while grabbing two towels from the bathroom. "She's out," he said, wiping Janelle's blood-stained cheeks. "Hopefully for a few hours."

Sam sighed and brushed his fingers through his hair. "You could have done everything I did, Dean," he breathed. "You could've gone to college. You're smart enough." Dean shook his head with a slight grin. "Hell, you're smarter than me at all this!"

Dean glanced up at him. "Colleges frown on that sort of thing, Sam. Besides, I knew Dad needed me … and I wasn't going to abandon him."

Sam huffed angrily. "I didn't abandon Dad!" he hollered. "Dad was crazy! Dad _is _crazy! I had to leave before he got me killed!"

"Oh, but it was no big deal if Dad got _me_ killed?" Dean retorted.

Sam shook his head. "I knew I didn't have to worry about you, Dean. You could take care of yourself. Besides ... Dad would have done everything in his power to protect you ... I don't think he felt the same way for me."

Dean's eyes widened and he slowly stood from the bed. "You want to run that by me again, Sammy?" he growled.

Janelle suddenly jumped up, shrieking at the top of her lungs – comforting Dean because it wasn't the howl of a hell-sent demon – and shaking her hands as though they were burning. Dean moved to grab her upper arms, but she kicked at him and scrambled backward into the headboard. Dean looked up at Sam, silently wondering why Janelle was pushing him away. Sam returned the same bewildered expression, but he felt it necessary to comfort her and certainly get her to stop screaming before the motel manager was called.

The screaming was abruptly cut off, and the brothers turned to Janelle. She was staring dumbfounded at her own hands, turning them over, inspecting her fingers and touching her hands together. Then she touched her face and, as unnerving as it was, smiled. She looked up quickly, meeting Dean's eyes.

"Dean?" she whispered, as if meeting him for the first time in many years.

Dean glanced at Sam. "Yeah, Janie, it's me," he softly replied.

Janelle maneuvered around onto her knees and began crawling toward him. "You can hear me?" she asked.

Sam and Dean were struck at the same moment with the revelation that Janelle's voice wasn't as soft or hesitant as it had been since the beginning of her possession. Her eyes no longer resembled a lost child only a few years born, either. She was Janelle, not Janie.

"Janelle?" Dean asked before Sam learned to comprehend words again.

"Yeah!" Janelle squeaked, bursting into tears as she threw her arms around Dean's neck and quite ungracefully clamored onto his lap. "What's happening, Dean?" she sobbed, her entire body trembling. "Please tell me what's happening to me."

Dean stole a glance at his much taller brother, telling him – through not but a simple twinkle in his eye – that he had no idea what the answer to Janelle's question was. He knew very well that she was possessed and she'd all but had a split personality for the last day and a half and, to top everything off, there was an epic battle raging somewhere inside of her between good and evil. Jesus, it sounded like a bad SciFi movie.

"Doesn't matter," Dean forced out, gently pushing her away so that he could look into her terrified eyes. Her tears must have washed away any last remnants of blood. "Because Sam and I are taking you to our friend … and he's gonna help you. You'll be fine in a few days, okay?"

"I don't wanna die yet," Janelle wept, lying her head on his shoulder.

"Who said you were gonna die?" Sam finally entered the conversation, sitting behind Dean and examining Janelle's face.

Her eyes met his and she blinked back more tears. "I don't remember," she whispered, looking down confusedly. "I mean, I can remember … but … not what happened." She gazed to the side of Sam with something of an airy thoughtfulness. "That's weird."

Dean's cell phone began to ring and Dean motioned for Sam to answer it. Sam sifted through Dean's bag, following the ringing. Once he located the device, he yanked it open.

"Can you just hold me?" Janelle asked Dean, tightening her grip around his neck and inching as closely to him as physically possible. "Like you held her?"

Dean's heart skipped a beat, stopped, and then quickened, feeling a bit like a fish on land. _Her_? Did Janelle really know about _her_? God, he hoped not.

In any event, he hesitated, unsure if he remembered how to hold a woman or if ever really knew how. But before he could attempt it, Janelle pulled away and looked at Sam.

"Is that my dad?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," Sam answered, holding the phone out to her.

Janelle climbed off of Dean and took the cell from Sam.

As his brother sat next to him again, Dean hoped that Sam hadn't heard Janelle's comment about _her_ because Sam would surely grill Dean about it until Dean couldn't possibly take it anymore.

After conversing with her father and assuring him a thousand times over that she was fine, Janelle hung up and shakily handed the phone back to Dean, making it a huge point not to brush her fingers against his. As she watched their hands almost connect, she noticed that she was wearing a dressy long-sleeved shirt, which did not belong to her and a pair of shorts that certainly were not hers.

"Uh, they're mine," Sam informed her, watching her nervously as she pulled at the shirt. "We didn't bring you anything to sleep in."

Janelle arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Who dressed me?" she questioned, but her tone suggested to the brothers that she already knew.

"Who cares?" Dean said, standing from the bed and continuing to gather his things from around the room. "Since you're capable now, why don't you get dressed so we can get the hell outta here?"

Sam had to hide his smirk, as Janelle grabbed her clothes from her bag and headed into the bathroom. He watched Dean treat everything around him roughly, knowing exactly what his problem was.

"Are you jealous, Dean?" he wondered, no longer able to hide his smile.

"Did you see her naked, Sam?" Dean burst out, throwing a shirt onto the bed and turning to Sam with frustration evident.

Sam looked down, suddenly finding his sneakers to be the most interesting thing in the room.

"You did, didn't you?"

"She wouldn't undress herself, Dean," Sam sighed shamefully. "She wanted to get into the bath with all her clothes on." Dean exhaled hard and slowly down again. "You know, Dean, the first step is admitting it."

"Admitting what, exactly?" Dean said. "That I kinda wanna run you over with my car?"

Sam breathed a laugh. "That you're a little more interested in Janelle than you normally would be," he explained.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. I'm now traveling cross country with the King of Normal," Dean growled.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**carla:** thanks very much for the review. it's pretty obvious i know nothing about the latin language, so i used an online translator. everybody knows those suck, so i apologize for any and all mistakes that most definitely will appear with anything latin. but thanks, anyway!

**lp29:** glad you're enjoying my ofc. i strongly detest mary sues and try my hardest not to make my story anything like them, so thanks very much. ;

**windyfontaine:** thanks so very much for always replying. means a lot to me! 3

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

Dean regretted not following his father's orders; he hated it, in fact. His dad counted on him, trusted him, to take care of cases John was unable to tend to himself. But he would never know, Dean thought bitterly. John never called to speak to him or Sam to find out if they were okay or to let them know he was okay. What kind of father was that? Especially after all the years Dean had put in to being the perfect soldier, a "chip off the ole block", all for John; all to help find what killed his mother. Dean knew Sam was hurting, too, because of their father's decision to sever most all ties with his sons.

Dean glanced at his brother, who was shaking slightly and breathing heavily after a nightmare had caused him to jump nearly a foot off the seat. Dean didn't bother asking what it was about – he knew. His tired eyes glided to the rearview mirror and watched for several seconds as Janelle lay in the backseat, silently gazing out the window and stroking Dean's leather jacket, which was draped over her as a blanket. It certainly wasn't cold outside or in the car, but he didn't question her when she'd requested something to keep her warm. She seemed tired, worn out, and who wouldn't be after an episode like the one in the motel room?

Janelle sighed sadly as she watched the world pass by through the window. Her hand idly rubbed over one of the sleeves of Dean's jacket as if the article of clothing was the most important thing to her, and she deeply inhaled a mixture of Dean's manly cologne scent from the collar of the jacket. She gazed longingly out the window like she had no will, no thoughts, and no dreams. Dean wished Janelle would stay like this until Father Rose performed his exorcism, but he knew this was only wishful thinking.

Dean shook his head, a little unsure of what Sam had just said, but he just didn't care anymore. He wanted to get to New Mexico, cure the four-year-old in the backseat and continue on his mission of finding his father.

"I'm sorry, you know," Dean broke his own silence, as the Impala passed the welcome sign for Jonesboro, Arkansas.

Sam glanced at Dean confusedly. "For what?" he asked.

"That shiner you got there."

Sam smirked, remembering the prominent bruise that had begun to form after Dean had backhanded him. "It's all right," Sam dismissed. "I believe it was you who said, 'Chicks dig scars'."

Dean laughed, switching hands on the steering wheel. "Yeah, well," he shrugged, "It's true."

Sam's knee unintentionally shoved against the glove compartment, knocking it open, and he looked at the revolver, which Dean had kept in there since Dad had given him the Impala on his 18th birthday. "Precaution," he'd said. Sam smiled at the memory, closing the door.

"Got to stop and get gas," Dean disclosed, casually glancing at the fuel gauge, which was almost on E.

"We should probably eat, too," Sam suggested, "That way we don't have to make so many stops for Janelle."

Dean nodded, as the mention of her name caused him to steal another glance at Janelle through the rearview. "She's asleep," he whispered incredulously.

Sam spun around in his seat and discovered Janelle lying against the door, using Dean's jacket as a pillow. "I'll be damned," he mumbled.

Dean looked at him. "Maybe," he said thoughtfully, locking eyes with his little brother, "If you get lucky."

Sam just shook his head and turned forward again.

After a few minutes, Dean had filled Priscilla's tank and located a small diner on the edge of Jonesboro. Once parked, the brothers spun around to face Janelle. She looked so peaceful and nothing like a woman possessed. Sam and Dean hated to wake her, as she might not get any sleep otherwise, but there was no other option afforded to them.

Dean got out first, walked around to the side Janelle wasn't leaning against and opened the door. Carefully, he placed his knee on the seat as he leaned inside. For a brief moment, he admired her soft features as the sun beat down on her face. She _was_ beautiful, she _wasn't_ the type he normally went after and she _was_ the only person to ever cause him so much grief.

"Janelle …" he whispered, reaching over and softly caressing her shoulder.

A moment later, she stirred, arching her back off the seat and turning to face Dean where she smiled tiredly yet sweetly.

"Hi," she spoke, groggily.

Dean smirked but it was gone before anyone noticed it and he informed Janelle where they were and what they were doing.

Janelle pushed her arms through the sleeves of Dean's leather jacket – her hands not even coming out the ends – and wrapped it tightly around herself, which would more than likely draw attention to her, as the temperature was very near the high 70s.

The three headed inside the diner and sat in the very back. Dean was next to Janelle, Sam in front of her, but she met the scrutinizing gazes of neither Winchester. Her eyes were downcast as she rested her head on her hand. Monumental headache, nausea and even her eyes were experiencing pain. What in God's name had she missed the past day and a half?

"What do you want, Janelle?" Dean asked.

Janelle ran her fingers through her tangled hair, wincing when she caught a knot. "I'm not hungry."

Sam looked up at her. "Janelle, you have to eat."

"I don't want to," she vehemently refused.

Dean slammed his hand on the tabletop and turned to Janelle. "Eat," he commanded.

Janelle smirked, languidly twisting in the booth like she were drunk – her head moving a bit slower than the rest of her body – and she scowled at Dean. "Fuck you," she slurred.

Dean straightened up, cocking his head to the side. He was perfectly prepared to reply with a _Fuck me?_ when he smelt it. The familiar acidic stench which burned his nostrils, and only then did he realize he'd inhaled it earlier after fighting his way out of the bathroom to save Sammy.

Sam sniffed it as well and caught Dean's eyes, but before he could suggest that they flee the diner, Janelle exhaled a puff of smoke. But it wasn't smoke; the temperate around them had dropped several degrees in only a few seconds.

"I'm so cold," Janelle breathed, her breath visible on the cooling air.

That was all Dean needed to hear. "Come on, we're going." He clawed at the leather jacket on Janelle's shoulder and yanked her out of the booth where he scooped her into his arms, carrying her toward the door.

"Is everything all right?" a waitress asked Sam after Dean had rushed past her with Janelle in his arms.

"Everything's fine, thanks!" Sam spat, hurrying passed her as well.

Dean practically threw Janelle into the backseat, climbed in behind her and yanked the door shut with his boot.

Sam swung around the front of the Impala, tore open the driver's side door and fell in. Dean tossed him the keys and he had them back on the road in a matter of seconds. Glancing in the rearview, he caught Dean rummaging through the essentials bag while Janelle seemed to be knocked out; her eyes closed and head rolling from side to side with the movement of the Chevy.

Sam considered flipping on the heat with the expected drop in temperature, but decided against it, knowing the ordeal would be over sooner than later. He hoped, anyway. He just wondered if he shouldn't pull over or if he should keep driving.

"Keep drivin'," Dean instructed, as if reading his mind. "I'm ready for him."

Sam peeked into the mirror again, spotting the crucifix and bottle of holy water in Dean's hands. Sam shook his head, wishing they had more weapons to use against this demon and wishing it didn't have to be Dean in the backseat with it. Should his brother need help, though, Sam would instantly pull over and offer his aid whether Dean liked it or not.

Janelle's head suddenly fell forward, her chin meeting her chest, her hair framing her face. And then she began to giggle, which evolved into laughing, followed by boisterous cackling. But it was _her_ laugh, and not the laugh of some amused Hell-sent fallen angel.

The laughing became a strangled whimper, and Janelle's terrified, watery eyes met Dean's. "I can feel it inside of me," she cried, her hands twisting into claws as she motioned toward her stomach. "Getting bigger …"

"Fight it," Dean growled, dropping the items in his hands to grab her face. "Do you hear me? Fight it. It's not stronger than you, understand? It's not. Fight it."

"I can't," Janelle sobbed, and then she threw her head back – her hair flying – and her lips curled into a malicious snarl. She growled as if she were using all her strength to push or pull something.

"That's right," Dean said, nodding. "Fight the son of a bitch."

"Stronger than me," Janelle forced out through clenched teeth.

"No, he's not!" Dean yelled. "Demons are not stronger than humans, but they make you think they are. They lie, Janelle. You're better than this thing. You're better than most things." He paused to brush his fingers through her hair. "Better than everything," he finished with a whisper.

Sam glanced in the rearview at Dean and thought for a moment if he wasn't seeing things. Dean's expression was one he'd never seen before, one he couldn't describe even if he tried. If he had to guess, though, he'd say that was Dean's gentle, caring face. The expression gave Sam chills.

Janelle shouted with her head thrown back, but it was a short howl – a bark – and Dean knew she was losing the battle. "He's not better, Janelle!" he yelled, grabbing her wrists.

Janelle abruptly became frozen, her hands twisted into talon-like distortions next to Dean's chest, and her eyes closed. Very slowly, she lay back against the seat where Dean relinquished his grip on her wrists.

"Should I stop?" Sam asked, watching everything as closely as he could without wrecking the car.

"Keep driving," Dean instructed.

"Dean …"

"Sam, I swear to God, if you stop this car …"

"Cristo?" Janelle whispered.

Dean's head slowly turned to look at Janelle just as she opened her eyes, sending two rivers of red down her cheeks. She stared at him with a maniacal smile fit only for the possessed.

"Vestri vindico non servo vos ian," she said, kissing his lips softly, almost causing him to respond, but he quickly remembered that Janelle wasn't Janelle. _Your deliverer can't save you now_. Her left hand snuck up and over the front seat to Sam's shoulder.

"Quare suus?" Dean whispered, falling under the mercy of her crimson eyeballs. _Why her_?

Janelle smiled, sending shivers up Dean's spine. "Is est propius." _She's special_. She tilted her head. "Vos teneo est non vos?" _You know that, don't you_?

"Quis operor vos volo ex suus?" Dean breathed. _What do you want from her_? He was beginning to feel lightheaded and fuzzy. As his eyes wandered around the inside of the car, he realized the car had stopped and Sam was passed out in the front seat.

"Vos vere non teneo, operor vos?" Janelle asked. _You really don't know, do you_?

Dean shook his head as it fell back against the seat, but he fought against whatever force was weakening him by keeping his eyes from closing.

"Bardus venator," she sneered, climbing quite gracefully onto his lap. _Stupid hunter_. "Ego debes notus Res vectum sumo plurrimi ignarus inter humanus." _I should have known Matthew would choose the most ignorant among humans_. She began to massage his shoulders as she ground her hips into his groin.

Dean groaned, trying to push away his arousal, but it just wasn't happening.

"Vos decem instituo vestri quispion vos is nunquan questes ex," she finished, her tongue snaking out of her mouth and licking over Dean's lips. _You've found yourself in something you're never getting out of_. "Ego mos lucror." _I will win_. And she brushed her fingers over his eyes.

Dean blacked out in that moment.

"_Please stay, Dean."_

_He grins down at this beautiful, willing, platinum blonde beneath him and wonders briefly if he isn't dreaming, if he isn't just fantasizing about this downstairs on the uncomfortable couch in the Markem living room. But it feels too real – as proven by a physical arousal he's never before endured – and even if it is a dream, he's going to milk it for all its worth._

_He cocks his head to the side, dipping lower where his wet mouth greets the flush, perspiring skin of Janelle's neck. She mewls so softly, so prettily, and arches into him. He continues downward, his slippery tongue familiarizing itself with every inch of tanned skin available to him. She's still in her bra and underwear, but he's strangely not turned off by this fact, and he doesn't attempt to remove either article; just keeps kissing and licking over her chest and stomach where he finally meets with one of his most weakening points on a woman's body: her belly button._

_He tongues the small indent, finding it preeminently sexy that it's not pierced like so many other women he's been with in the recent past. When he becomes aware of her hand threading through his short hair, he moves on; placing three strategically mapped pecks just above her panty line as he raises his eyebrows and gazes up into her eyes._

_She's watching him – her head propped on the fluffy pillow – with eyes so overrun with sex and lust and need and want that Dean has to fight the quite unbearable urge to shove his hand into his pants and get off right then and there. Well, what he has planned should suffice until it's his turn … he hopes._

_His back end hops up, his knees jumping beneath him, and he sits back on his heels. Janelle sits up, elbows behind her, and arches an eyebrow._

"_You're not gonna shortchange me, are you, Dean?" she asks, her right knee bending so that her foot can massage his thigh and hip._

_Dean smirks, caressing her thighs as he bites down hard on his bottom lip. She's so delectable, and his mouth waters. He slips his index and middle fingers beneath the waistband of her boyshorts and slowly slides them down her hips, and she responds by lifting her hips in both anticipation and aid to Dean's cause._

"_I don't shortchange," Dean says._

_Janelle giggles, raising her foot to his chest. "I'm sure you don't," she teases._

_Dean raises his eyebrows and means to laugh, but all that comes out is a quick grunt. "You want me to prove it?" he asks, kissing her ankle._

"_Are you gonna make me beg for it?" she whispers, licking her lips._

_Dean shrugs, the corners of his mouth arching downward. "Doesn't matter," he sighs. "I'm gonna do it with or without your permission."_

"_Is that so?" Janelle breathes, her elbows sliding out from beneath her and she grips the sheets and blankets in tight fists._

"_Cuz I like it," Dean grins, eyes wide with a cavalier smile and a slight tilt of his head._

"_Do you always talk this much?" Janelle sighs, closing her eyes when she feels him kiss up her calf and down her thigh._

"_Shh …" Dean whispers, holding the sound out for as long as his lungs will allow while he stretches onto the bed on his stomach; sweeping his arms beneath her legs. He kisses her inner thigh so dangerously close to the target area, but he's not ready to give it to her yet. "I could still make you beg."_

_Janelle puffs out a deep breath. "Please, Dean," she pleads, her hand finding the side of his head._

_Dean beams, his hands gliding up to her stomach before his tongue sets to work._

_Going down on a woman is something of an art to Dean. He loves everything about it: the way they taste; the way they wriggle at one flex of his tongue; the way they pull his hair and then massage his scalp because they feel bad for pulling his hair; and especially the way they make those oh so fucking sexy noises when he hits the right spot. The noises are somewhat of an addiction to him like the addiction he has to his Winchester_ _rifle._

"_Oh, God," Janelle whimpers, arching her back only to be pushed back down by Dean's large callused hand._

_Dean's eyes never leave Janelle's face, which only serves to make him harder._

"_God!" she growls, and Dean immediately reaches up to thrust his thumb into her mouth to keep her from screaming._

_God, he'd fucking love to hear her scream right now even though it's the very last thing his straining erection needs at the moment. And then she begins to suck hard on his thumb, moving it in and out of her mouth._

_Dean grumbles, but his pace and fancy trickery never falters. He needs something – friction – but not the material of his cotton boxers. He needs skin-to-skin contact even if it is his own skin._

_He slides one arm out from beneath Janelle's leg, and she yanks at his hair, pulling his head up so that she can see his whole face._

"_No," she whispers, grabbing his hand. "I'll take care of that."_


	18. Chapter Eighteen

_I'm sorry the updates aren't coming sooner. But like I've said before, it's really disheartening and annoying that 28 people are alerted to updates for this story, but I average 2 reviews every chapter. So if the updates come less and less, it's for this reason._

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Sam waited patiently and absolutely as quietly as possible so as not to disturb Dean, though he was quite unsure of whether or not he could even wake Dean after what had happened. His hands clenched the steering wheel so tightly that he was perfectly prepared for when his knuckles broke through the skin. Hell, part of him was even looking forward to it. Anything was better than Dean waking up and becoming vengeance, becoming wraith. And Sam would take the brunt of it even though it wasn't his fault Janelle refused to get back in the car, and Sam wouldn't allow Dean to yell at Janelle anymore.

"Come on, Janelle," Sam whispered.

"Sam!" Dean suddenly screamed, his foot jamming into the front seat.

Sam's eyes snapped shut, but he spun around, thrusting himself over the seat and clenching Dean's shoulders. "Dean!" he yelled. "Take a deep breath."

"Sam!" Dean shrieked, his eyes wandering around aimlessly, as he was handicapped by temporary blindness - a parting gift from Elathan.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, jerking Dean's shoulders. "Breathe!"

Dean sucked in a breath, but it was strangled, as if he wasn't getting enough air; Sam remembered all too well going through it, too, when he'd awoken from his deep sleep almost two hours before.

"Breathe, Dean," Sam demanded, with another jolt of his brother's broad shoulders.

Moments later, Dean's breathing became regulated as he held onto Sam's biceps. And then he pushed Sam away, kicked open the backdoor, leaned over and threw up onto the street.

Sam turned around in the front seat, trying to block out Dean's heaving and gagging. He'd thrown up as well, but he guessed now probably wasn't the best time to tell Dean.

"Sam," Dean croaked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and realizing, as he stared unsteadily down at whatever he'd recently eaten, that the street was not rushing beneath the car like it should have been, and Sam obviously had not been driving when he'd counseled him through his lack of oxygen. "Why the hell aren't we moving?"

Sam cracked his neck, returning his death-like grip to the steering wheel. "Janelle won't get in the car. She won't even come near it," he reluctantly confessed.

"What?" Dean yelled, snapping his head in Sam's direction. He jumped out of the backseat, minding the partially digested puddle, and, though dizzy, jogged to the front of the Chevy.

Janelle was pacing back and forth frantically, her hands shaking radically in front of her chest. It was more than evident that she was nearly hyperventilating with tears streaming down her cheeks.

A breakdown; just what Dean needed.

"I'm sorry, Dean," she suddenly blurted out. "This is my fault, and I'm sorry." She whimpered, and Dean sighed heavily.

Dean instinctively reached out, wrapping his arm around her neck and tugging her much smaller body against his chest. She shook in his grasp and tried to wiggle away, but he held fast until she relented and fell into the embrace.

"It's alright," Dean whispered. "As long as you're okay." He felt Janelle nod against his chest and he nodded as well. "Good, now, can you get back in the car, or are we gonna have to walk all the way to New Mexico?"

Janelle glanced up at him, apprehension and fear written all over her face, but she somehow managed to shake her head. "Not yet," she whispered. "Bad things happen in that car."

"All right," Dean replied in the same whisper. "A few minutes, okay? Then we _have_ to go." He watched for a moment, as Janelle gulped and returned her attention to promptly freaking out, and then he walked around the car to where Sam was standing out of the way.

Dean was about to come out of his pants in rage. He wanted more than anything to bitch and moan and complain about everything he and his brother shared, but he just didn't. Bitching, moaning and complaining were all classified as weaknesses and Dean Winchester didn't do weakness.

"I wanna kill it, Sam," he forced out through clenched teeth.

Sam inhaled deeply, nodding his head. "I know," he said. "Me, too. But we both know the only thing we can do is exorcise it."

"No, there's gotta be a way to kill it," Dean ranted, pacing to and fro in front of Sam and nearly in the middle of the road.

"We can't worry about that now, Dean," Sam reasoned, leaning back on the Chevy. "We just have to prepare ourselves better for next time."

"We can't let there _be_ a next _time_, Sam!" Dean shouted, halting his pacing, standing before Sam with a hand on his hip.

"Dean, you're not treating this like any other case," Sam stated, tilting his head as he inspected his brother curiously. He wasn't sure exactly how to cope with Dean's sensitivity and softness toward Janelle as opposed to _Let's handle this shit so we can get the hell out of this town_.

"Don't you fuckin' do that," Dean warned, pointing a finger.

"Well, Dean, it's true," Sam admitted, pushing away from the car. "If Janelle were a guy or some chick you _didn't_ make out with, would you have taken _them_ cross country to be exorcised?"

Dean's eyes grew round and darkened with rage just before he gripped Sam's shirts and shoved him back against the car. Both brothers were eerily reminded of the bridge incident with Constance Welch.

"Don't do that," Dean whispered, raising his eyebrows. When he was aware of Sam's surrender - hands dropping, eyes falling - he slowly released his shirts and backed away.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, gripping his brother's shoulders and spinning them, throwing Dean against the car. Some late model sports car whizzed by, nearly flattening Dean on the pavement.

Dean languidly turned to look at his little brother, who'd just saved his life, and he didn't think about thanking him or apologizing for being such a hardass of late; he only thought of some evil force trying to stop him from getting Janelle to New Mexico. Something Hell-sent was responsible for that car almost hitting him.

"I'm losin' it, Sam," Dean confessed incredulously, "And I don't even know why."

Sam wished he could understand how Dean was feeling so that he could comfort his brother, but he had no idea what Dean was going through.

"Well, you have to keep it together, Dean," he said forcefully. "For Janelle."

As if on cue, Janelle tip-toed over to them, pushed Sam and then Dean out of her way and then reached into the car to turn the key. The Impala roared to life, and the brothers shared a look.

"I wanna go home," she whispered, turning to them, looking at one and then the other. "So I don't really care who's losing it and who's keeping it together. I just need you to get me to … this guy, whoever he is, and get this … _thing_ out of me." Her watery eyes met Dean's. "Because I don't want to die."

Dean rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Get in the car," he ordered. Janelle hurriedly climbed into the backseat without a word. He expected her to give him some sort of look or maybe a nod, but she simply did not. Dean turned his attention to Sam. "Get in the car," he reiterated. As Sam walked around the front of the Impala, Dean commented, "One big happy fucking family."

Dean checked his mirrors very quickly before pulling onto the road with squealing tires. There was silence, which was exactly how he liked it under normal circumstances, but now, during such silence, all he could do was think. Think about Janelle and her possession and the dreams he'd been having about her. Think about how the only reason he hadn't stubbornly attempted another exorcism was because Sam would never allow him to; come Hell or high water, Sam always put his brother's well-being ahead of anyone else's. Think about how he hadn't thought about looking for their father since meeting Janelle. Think about what was going to happen when he met Malcolm Rose, who was probably planning on actually shooting him this time.

Blindly, he reached into the box full of cassettes, not caring whether it was his box or Janelle's, pulled one out, and shoved it into the player. When the sound of a harmonica filtered through the speakers, Dean rolled his eyes. Damn it, Sam hadn't mentioned a goddamn Faster Pussycat tape in her collection.

"_It's a little passed suppertime_," the lyrics began. "_I'm still out on the porch step sittin' on my behind, waitin' for you. Wonderin' if everything's all right. Mama said, 'Come in, boy, don't waste your time.' I said, 'I got time. Well, he'll be here soon.' Five-years-old and talkin' to myself. Where were you? Where'd you go? Daddy, can't you tell_?"

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat and squirmed in his seat unnoticed. Sure, he had a father, but only in the physical sense. John Winchester was never actually all the way there for him or Sam when they were younger. Instead of growing up, young Dean Winchester had been thrown up.

"You shouldn't worry, Janelle," Sam said soothingly, and Dean saw that the two were looking at each other.

Janelle was silent in her response. She was scared, Dean knew, terrified even, but there was nothing he could do for her. She knew what was happening to her, knew about the evil entity inside of her. He did find happiness, though, and relief, in the realization that Janelle could have been stuck at home with not but Catholic priests to call for help. Instead, she was with him, and Sam, and that was as safe as she was going to get.

"_Wasn't I worth the time_?" the song continued, and Dean was jolted by memories of thinking the same thing when he'd discovered his father had left him without so much as a goodbye. "_A boy needs a daddy like a dance to a mime, and all the time … I looked up to you. I paced my room a million times. All I ever got was one big line, the same old lie. How could you? Well, I was eighteen and still talkin' to myself. Where were you? Where'd you go? Daddy, can't you tell_?"

Goddamn, Dean needed a cigarette, and he hadn't smoked since he was … eighteen.

"_I'm not tryin' to fake it and I ain't the one to blame. No, there's no one home in my house of pain. I didn't write these pages and my script's been rearranged. No, there's no one home in my house of pain_."

"How much farther?" Janelle quietly asked, wrapping Dean's jacket around herself.

"Depends," Dean said.

"On what?" she looked tiredly up at him.

"On whether or not we get pulled over," Sam immediately interjected, knowing that Dean would probably make some mention about how everything depended on the demon inside of her. That was true, but Janelle didn't need to hear it.

More horribly uncomfortable silence.

"Hope you guys don't mind the music," Janelle said, chuckling awkwardly.

"No, I like Faster Pussycat," Dean was quick to announce, as if the information was a ticket straight to Heaven. "Sam, on the other hand, misses his Backstreet Boys CD."

Janelle giggled and glanced up at Sam, who shrugged and nodded, deciding to just go along with the joke.

"It's true," he sighed.

Hours later, closing in on the Arkansas/Oklahoma border, Dean pulled over at a Shell station at Janelle's bathroom request. As Dean headed inside for drinks and snacks and scratch-off lottery tickets, Sam followed Janelle to the bathroom, which was on the side of the building. He opened the door for her with the key attached to the wooden rectangle and took Dean's jacket from her.

"If you need anything, I'm right outside," he told her.

Janelle nodded and closed the door. After relieving herself, she proceeded to wash her hands. She gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror for a moment and then returned her attention to her hands.

"In nomine Patris," a voice - her voice - broke the silence. She jumped away from the sink and slammed into the wall behind her. "Et Filii," she continued, but it wasn't her speaking; it was her reflection. "Et Spiritus sancti."

"Who are you?" Janelle whispered, her entire body shaking with fright.

"You will suffer," her reflection disclosed, "_monumentally_, as you do now. You have been overcome by evil, but you still do not believe in the good inside of you. Your senses are blinded."

Janelle's stricken expression abruptly turned cold. "Is that why this is happening to me? Because I don't believe in _good_? Give me one good goddamn reason why I _should_."

"Should you choose to accept your fate; the fate of the others will be altered."

"What the hell does that mean?" Janelle nearly yelled, grabbing hold of the sink.

Outside, Sam leaned against the wall next to the door. Upon hearing muffled voices, he pushed away from the wall and stood before the door. "Janelle?" he called. "Are you all right?"

"Cursing at me will do you no good," her reflection calmly continued. "It will not change the result, either."

"Accept my fate," Janelle whispered, examining this statement thoroughly. "I'm gonna die," she breathed, looking up at the mirror.

"Yes," her reflection replied.

"Why?" Janelle cried, tears slipping down her cheeks.

"You carry something inside of you. Something pure. Something undiscovered."

"I don't understand," Janelle growled.

"If recent events are any indication, the gift within you will not be discovered in time. It will be a universal lesson. Your lives will save others."

"_Lives_?" The tears suddenly stopped and she returned to anger. "They'll die, too?"

"They knew the consequences of the mission they accepted."

"You want me to accept dying, I will, but I will _not_ let _them_ die."

"The decision is not yours to make." Her reflection was adamant. "You will die during the exorcism; they will die in the battle."

"Janelle?" Sam called again.

Janelle glanced in the direction of the door and then turned back to the mirror to find her own reflection; not one possessed by … something else. After drying her tears and making herself as presentable as possible, she opened the door to a very concerned Sam, who looked as though he was ready to break down the door.

"Are you all right?" he asked, gripping her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she lied, smiling crookedly.

"Come on, kids!" Dean shouted as he headed across the parking lot with a bag full of junk food and caffeine beverages and lottery scratch-offs that were more than likely a waste of money, but he couldn't help but hold onto the hope that one day he'd win the big bucks. "I wanna get the hell out of this state!"

"I'm glad he announced that around the locals," Janelle muttered, taking Dean's jacket when Sam offered it.

Sam chuckled, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they strolled toward the Impala. "Well, Dean's never gotten along with locals anywhere." He opened the back door for her, and she climbed in.

"Do you ever win on those?" Janelle wondered, watching Dean scratch away one of four tickets.

Dean glanced at her. "Sometimes," he shortly replied.

"He means never," Sam corrected.

Dean gave his brother a look as he scratched away the silver areas on the tickets. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. Dean looked over the winning ticket and upon reading that he'd won $250, he passed the ticket to Sam, causing his little brother's eyebrows to shoot up into his hairline.

"You won," Janelle whispered.

"Yes, darlin', I did," Dean smirked at her over his shoulder before stealing the ticket back from Sam and taking it inside to cash it. "The only thing better than spending someone else's money is winning your own!" he exclaimed, holding up the cash.

"That won't last long," Sam commented quietly from the passenger seat, referring to Dean's drinking and gambling and incredible appetite.

"That's why we got credit cards, Sammy," Dean said, starting the car.

"With other people's names on them," Janelle argued.

"So?" Dean said, flipping through the tapes.

"I'd like to do this as legal as possible." Both Sam and Dean looked at her. "If that's all right with you."

Dean shoved a tape into the player and chucked up the volume a great deal. The sounds of coins jingling and a cash register drawer slamming came through the speakers, and Dean felt himself smile. If he'd just won a nice wad of cash, by God, he was going to listen to a song about money.

"Is this Pink Floyd?" Sam questioned.

"Yeah, why?" Dean asked.

Sam's lips curled and he nodded slowly. "Nothin'. Just expected it to be something heavier."

"_Money_!" Dean suddenly, obnoxiously shouted, pounding his hands on the steering wheel. Maybe it was a way to let loose, maybe it was a way to vent anger and frustration. Whatever Dean's reason was, it didn't matter, because Janelle was grinning, even giggling, and both Sam and Dean were mighty thankful for it.

What the brothers didn't know was that Janelle's sudden brightness was simply a façade. All that was on her mind was the bathroom incident. She wanted to think that she wasn't afraid of dying, but of course she was. However, she felt more fear for Sam and Dean's lives. They were only trying to help her; there was no reason for them to die for it. But she would see to it that this outcome was not made reality. Neither Winchester was going to die protecting someone like her; someone who lacked faith and the belief in good people.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**Later, after the sun had buried itself beyond the horizon, Janelle suggested they stop at a motel. She wanted to get to New Mexico** **and get exorcised, but she also needed to prolong the time it would take to come up with a way to keep Sam and Dean alive and unscathed. Dean argued with her suggestion – profusely – but she could tell how tired he was, and how badly Sam needed to stretch his large frame, and how she desired a warm bed. She was unsure of which reason changed his mind, but he did pull over at a motel that was just a bit swankier than the ones they normally stayed at. It was still crap, but better crap.**

"**Sleep," Dean sighed thankfully, falling face-first onto the bed closest to the door. "It's better than sex."**

**Sam paused and looked at his brother. "Dude," he said.**

"**Shut up, Sam," Dean quickly added.**

"**Well, I'm hungry," Sam breathed, rummaging through the bag of snacks, "And if I eat anything out of _here_, I'm gonna lapse into a sugar-induced coma."**

"**Then go get something else, Mother Theresa," Dean mumbled into the pillow.**

"**Yeah," Sam agreed, scratching the back of his neck. "You gonna be okay here?"**

**Dean pushed himself into a sitting position and found Janelle seated on the opposite bed. Her face and body were directed toward him, but her eyes were locked on the drawer between the beds. Her eyebrow was arched high as if she was either examining it or terrified of it. Then she reached over and pulled it open to reveal the Holy Bible. Dean watched as she continued to stare at it.**

"**You want me to move it?" Dean asked softly. Janelle nodded, and he grabbed the book and carelessly tossed it under the bed.**

"**All right, I'll be back," Sam announced, retrieving the car keys and leaving the room.**

"**So, what now?" Janelle wondered.**

**Dean inhaled deeply and laid back down. "Now we wait for slow-ass Sammy to get back with something gross, we eat, then we sleep."**

**Janelle nodded, glancing nervously around the room. "Um, Dean?" she said, hardly louder than a whisper.**

"**What?" Dean growled, rolling onto his back and covering his eyes.**

"**I have to go to the bathroom."**

"**So go."**

"**Could you … cover up the mirror?"**

**Dean turned his head to look at her. "What for?"**

**No way was Janelle going to disclose this information. "Please?"**

**Dean knew better than to question her reasoning and he stood, grabbing his leather jacket and hanging it over the mirror in the bathroom. He made sure it wouldn't fall and the mirror would stay in place before heading back over to Janelle.**

"**Bathroom's secure," Dean relayed like some sort of secret agent, hoping for and receiving a gentle smile from Janelle.**

"**Thank you," she whispered, passing Dean as she padded into the bathroom and closed the door.**

**Dean sighed, scratching his stomach and sitting on the bed. He was about to lay down when his cell phone began to ring. He took it from the nightstand, flicked it open and pressed it to his ear. "Speak," he commanded.**

"**How are you, Mr. Winchester?" Father Malcolm Rose.**

"**I've seen better days," Dean dryly replied.**

"**And the woman?"**

"**I'm pretty sure she's seen better days, too."**

"**Have there been many incidents?"**

"**Incidents? Oh, you mean when that goddamn demon almost killed Sam? Or when it almost killed my car …?"**

"**Where are you?" Malcolm interrupted.**

"**Almost to Oklahoma," Dean sighed.**

"**You seem to be taking your time," Malcolm growled.**

**Dean took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing, Malcolm. Hey, I have an idea!" he shouted, throwing a hand up just as Janelle stepped out of the bathroom. "Why don't _you_ crawl out of that fucking Coward** **Palace** **you call a church and drive a possessed woman across the country with only a crucifix and holy water to fight the bastard off?"**

"**Take caution in your tone, Mr. Winchester," Malcolm warned.**

"**Take caution in this," Dean murmured, pulling the phone from his ear, saluting it with his middle finger and then hanging up. "I hate that guy," he whispered.**

"**You shouldn't have done that," Janelle breathed, slowly sinking onto the bed in front of him.**

"**Yeah, tell me about it," Dean said, tossing the phone onto the table. "If you want something to sleep in, you can look in my bag." He pointed in the general direction of his duffel behind him. "It probably won't be clean. I haven't done laundry in … God, when _did_ I do laundry?"**

**Janelle dug around in his bag a moment before deciding on a pair of sweatpants that could have swallowed her and a dark gray T-shirt. The clothes smelled like Dean, just like Sam's clothes had smelt like Sam. She changed hurriedly behind Dean while he muttered meaninglessly about the last time he'd washed his clothes.**

"**Is he the exorcist?" she asked, sitting next to him.**

"**You should lay down," Dean answered. "Get some sleep."**

"**I can't."**

"**Why not?"**

"**Because I'm hungry."**

**Dean smiled. "Oh, yeah. Well, I wouldn't trust anything Sam brings back. He likes that seafood seaweed health crap."**

**Janelle's eyebrow arched. "He looks the type. Bein' all skinny and stuff."**

"**Being all skinny and stuff, that kid weighs a ton." He paused a moment to realize something. "How can we do this?" he questioned.**

**Janelle looked at him. "Do what?"**

"**Pretend like nothing's wrong." He glanced at her when she didn't respond immediately, and she appeared to be thinking.**

"**Defense mechanism, I guess," she sighed.**

**When the three finished eating and after showering, it was silently decided that everyone try for some sleep no matter how difficult the task seemed. The sleeping arrangement was the same as before; Janelle and Dean sharing a bed while Sam again got one to himself. He wondered briefly if he wouldn't sleep better if maybe Janelle was next to him; she did bare some resemblance to … _her_, and that thought hadn't been lost on him the first time he met her, but only now did he feel the need to admit this fact. He rolled over, putting his back to Dean and Janelle, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes.**

**Janelle faced away from Dean as well, but she didn't even bother to close her eyes because she knew she'd be awake for the remainder of the night, possibly even the remainder of the trip. She thought about Dean behind her, though, wondered if he was sleeping and what he was thinking about. And then she could no longer endure the quiet; she had to hear the voice of one specific Winchester.**

"**Dean?" she whispered, but her voice carried like a fucking scream. "Are you asleep?"**

"**No." His voice wasn't a whisper but a low, tired growl.**

"**If I die," Janelle said, and Dean turned his head in her direction, "Promise me that you won't blame yourself."**

**Dean rolled over to face the back of her head. He could've argued that she wasn't going to die, that he would protect her and that he would die trying to protect her. "Okay." But he didn't. "I promise."**

"**Can I trust your promise?" Janelle inquired, raising her arm in the inky blackness along with her pinky finger.**

**Dean looked up at the outline of her raised finger and felt himself smile before locking her pinky finger with his own. "My pinky promises are the best I can give you, Janelle," he said.**

"**Thank you," she whispered, pulling his arm around her and his body closer to hers.**

"**You're welcome," Dean breathed, adjusting his body to the closeness of Janelle's. The heat was definitely a better feeling as opposed to the cold he'd experienced lying alone. He hadn't held a woman in so long that he'd almost forgotten exactly how to do it, but when Janelle's hand tightened on his against her chest and her petite body scoot back closer to his, he realized that he didn't need to remember.**

**In the early hours of the night, Sam tried to roll over in his half-awake, half-asleep state, finding that he couldn't because of a light weight resistance on top of him. Sam's eyes slowly fluttered open and he jumped, his elbows supporting his upper body. He couldn't believe his eyes and he knew he had to be dreaming; no way was what he was seeing real.**

"**Jess?" he whispered.**

"**Sam," she smiled, touching his cheek gently.**

"**Jess, I …"**

"**Shh … just listen," she interrupted.**

"**I thought you were …"**

"**I am." Her smile widened. "Janelle's body is like an opened door for Above and Below. When she fell asleep, I saw my chance and I took it."**

**Tears pricked the corners of Sam's eyes. He knew he was looking at Janelle, but all he could see and hear and smell and _feel_ was Jessica. "I miss you so much," he wept.**

"**I came here so you could say goodbye, Sam," she told him, brushing her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. "That's what's really bothering you, isn't it?"**

"**No," Sam whispered.**

"**Let go of the visions, Sam," she begged. "If you would have told me about your nightmares, I wouldn't have believed you, and you know that. You're just torturing yourself this way, and I can't stand to watch it anymore."**

"**I should've told you," Sam whined, reaching to touch her face. "I should've been honest with you."**

"**Stop it, Sam," she demanded. "I came to relieve your guilt so you can move on with your life, so you can find someone else. You deserve a better life."**

"**I don't want anyone but you," Sam admitted.**

"**I have to go soon, Sam. Please don't make this visit a bad idea."**

"**You wouldn't be mad if I … if I … found someone else?" Sam shakily asked. "I don't want you to be disappointed …"**

**She giggled. "Sam, I'll be mad _and_ disappointed if you spend the rest of your life alone and grieving." She suddenly turned around as if someone had just called her name. "I have to go, Sam," she whispered, smiling down at him.**

"**No! Jess, wait!" Sam stammered.**

"**Be happy," she said, "And don't forget to smile; it looks pretty on you."**

**Sam watched as Jess's image faded away until – as much as he still wanted to see and talk to his late girlfriend – he was looking at Janelle above him. Before he had the time to understand how incredibly awkward their position was, Janelle's eyes closed slowly and, even more slowly, laid back down: her legs stretching out but still straddling Sam's, arms on either side of his head, and her head finding refuge just below his chin. She'd been asleep before Jess had invaded her body, as well as during and now she was continuing it.**

**Glancing over at Dean still sleeping, his arm lying lonesome next to him where Janelle had been sleeping, Sam knew that if he allowed Janelle to stay in his bed for the remainder of the night, Dean would be upset. He wouldn't admit it, of course, but Sam was not stupid; he'd witnessed enough of Dean's irrational actions to know that his older bother was a prime candidate for homicide, suicide or a mental breakdown.**

**After several moments of plotting, Sam put himself into motion to get Janelle back into the right bed. He sat up very slowly with his right hand on her back and his left hand bending her right leg at his side and then he did the same to her left. Her head fell onto his shoulder as her entire body remained limp against him. She should've woken up, but Sam didn't dwell on this fact for too long. He threw his legs over the side of the bed, took a deep breath, and stood up. When Janelle's legs dangled against his – her toes brushing his knees – Sam awkwardly maneuvered an arm beneath them and scooped her into his arms. Still she didn't move, and he gently laid her on the bed next to Dean, who didn't stir, either. When Sam slid his hands out from underneath Janelle, she rolled over and snuggled closer to Dean. Dean replied by clearing his throat, adjusting his position, and throwing an arm around her to pull her closer. **

**Sam smirked, remembering a number of times when he and Jess fought, went to sleep on separate sides of the bed, but awoke tangled together. He quickly climbed back into his own bed, hoping he'd be able to get back to sleep.**


	20. Chapter Twenty

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

The next day, Dean's eyes fluttered open against his pillow as he lay on his stomach. For a moment, he thought everything was back to normal – he and Sam were on any other job at any other motel on any other motel bed. But then he smelled Janelle's _pretty_ scent on his pillow and he was brought back to the harsh reality of where he actually was. Next, he came to the conclusion that Janelle wasn't beside him or behind him and she wasn't in bed with Sam, and there was a slight scratching noise coming from across the room.

"Janie?" he whispered, lifting himself up, looking around. "Janelle?"

Janelle sat on her hands and knees facing the corner near the door. No doubt she was causing the sound, but what the hell was she doing?

Dean threw back the covers, climbed out of bed, and slowly approached Janelle. Her body was positioned in such a way that he couldn't see what was holding her interest or what was making the scratching noises, especially if she was focused on the carpet.

"Janelle?" he ventured, leaning forward a bit where his eyeballs widened in shock and fury. In Janelle's hand was the insanely sharp, circularly-shaped blade he'd gotten for Sam on his sixteenth birthday, and she was carefully picking away the carpet and floorboards to make a small hole in the corner. Dean was awestruck by the fact that she hadn't found a way to kill herself with the weapon yet.

"Janie!" he suddenly shouted, grabbing her arm and yanking her to her feet so quickly that her feet left the ground for a brief moment.

"Ow!" Janelle squealed, bringing the sharp end of the blade to Dean's arm and dragging it across the skin until blood flowed freely from the wound.

"What the f ..!" Dean began.

Sam rolled over in his bed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Dean? What's going on?"

Dean didn't know what it was – his hunter instinct or just plain defense mechanism – when he reeled back with his right hand, swinging it around until his hand connected squarely with Janelle's jaw. He watched in horror as she fell to the ground like a ton of bricks, cradling her cheek and gazing up at him with watery eyes, and when she blinked, those tears fell down her cheeks.

"Dean!" Sam roared, jumping out of bed and running to Janelle's aid. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Dean shook his throbbing hand unknowingly as he regarded Sammy and Janelle with empty eyes. What had he just done? He knew he hit her; he remembered doing that, but one terrifying thought wouldn't leave his head: had he smacked her or had he actually _punched_ her? The mark he left on her face would tell the truth, but he really didn't want to wait around for those results, so he threw open the motel door and stormed out, slamming it behind him.

Sam, seething with fury, took several deep breaths to calm his nerves and focus on Janelle. "Are you okay?" he breathed, helping her off the floor and onto the bed she'd shared with Dean the night before.

"He hit me," Janelle whimpered, and Sam caught a quick glimmer of a young child in her eye.

_Fantastic_.

"Why did he do that, Sammy?" Janelle went on.

Sam removed her hand from her cheek to inspect the damage Dean had caused and he was only infuriated more by the small trickle of blood falling down her chin from the corner of her mouth. He angrily wiped it away with his thumb, then wiped his thumb on his boxer shorts and returned both hands to her face. He didn't have to be psychic to know she was more than appalled by Dean's actions and more than likely completely terrified of him now.

"I don't know why he did it, Janie," Sam finally answered, his voice coming out a lot softer than he felt on the inside. "Dean's …" He absolutely hated lying for his brother, particularly after such an incident, but he had no choice. "Dean's been upset lately. You know that. He just … he took it out on the wrong person. He shouldn't have done that, but I don't think he meant to. Okay?"

"He wants to hurt me," Janelle cried, looking down in shame.

"No, he doesn't!" Sam disagreed, pulling her into a tight hug. She needed comforting more than Sam needed to lay out his brother for hitting a girl who was all but mentally impaired. "He doesn't want to hurt you, Janie. He wants to hurt the thing _inside_ of you. Do you understand? Not you. The bad thing inside of you." Janelle did not seem convinced, so Sam let the explanation drop. "Are you okay?" he inquired, smoothing his humongous hands over Janelle's messy hair.

Janelle sniffed pathetically and shook her head. "It hurts," she sobbed, idly massaging Dean's fist's target on her face with the heel of her hand.

"I know it does, sweetheart," Sam sighed, quickly surveying the room for a bucket of ice, which they hadn't needed or wanted the night before. The night before … when Jess had used Janelle's body to contact him. Janelle was going through so much, half of which she didn't even know about, and a little bit of Sam died for enjoying speaking to Jess via Janelle.

"Do you hate me, Sammy?" Janelle wondered.

Sam turned back to her, smiling warmly. "No," he whispered, kissing her forehead softly. "I never could and I never would."

"You promise?" she asked.

"I promise _promise_," he smirked. Glancing back toward the door, Sam knew he needed to talk to Dean – beat Dean – before he lost his nerve. "Janie," he began, looking again at Janelle's face, "I'm gonna get you some ice, okay?"

"No!" Janelle exclaimed, fisting her hands in Sam's shirt. "Don't leave me alone, Sammy!"

"Janie …"

"You can't!"

Sam huffed and scratched his head. "All right, well, I'm gonna go outside and talk to Dean …"

"Sammy, please ..?" Janelle breathed. "It's bad. Something's bad."

"Look, Janelle," Sam demanded, dragging her over to the window and throwing the curtains open. "See? There's Dean. I'm gonna be standing right there with him. You'll be able to see me the whole time."

After a moment of consideration, Janelle finally relented and nodded her head. "Okay," she whispered.

Sam kissed her forehead once more before walking out of the room, closing the door behind him, and standing next to his big brother; a man he'd worshipped for so long when he was a child had quickly been demoted to simply Some Guy.

"Well, congratulations to _you_, brother-mine. You not only knocked her to the floor, but you knocked her back twenty years," Sam growled maliciously, wondering how long he'd be able to contain his anger. When it was clear Dean hadn't a clue what Sam was saying, he went on to explain, "She's four again." He watched Dean's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "She thinks you wanna hurt her." Still Dean said nothing. "Is that true?"

"You know that's not true, Sam," Dean replied softly.

Sam didn't know what he'd expected, but it certainly wasn't a cool, calm, and collected Dean Winchester. "No, Dean, I don't _know_! What the hell possessed you to hit her?" He was shouting now, and he didn't care who heard or who saw.

"Like you don't know!" Dean yelled back, turning to Sam.

"Stop using that demon as a smoke screen, Dean," Sam grumbled. "I know it's been responsible for a lot of bad things that've happened to _Janelle_, but news flash, Dean! You're not the one possessed here!"

Dean shook his head and looked away.

Sam continued, "Unless there's something you're not telling me." He inspected Dean's face for a reaction and was surprised by the slight wince in Dean's eye. "Is there something else going on, Dean? Something I don't know about? Because if there is, you better tell me now!"

"You think you got everything figured out, don't you?" Dean said, smirking only slightly. "You don't even know the half of it."

Sam gave no warning whatsoever before smashing his fist into his brother's rock solid jaw, sending him flying onto the hood of the Impala. He glued his feet to the ground, body rigid in attack position for anything Dean might throw back, but his older sibling sat and stared. Stared because, Sam knew, he never thought his little brother would do such a thing, though Dean had to have known he had it coming.

"You pack a mean right cross, Sammy," Dean muttered, rubbing his jaw as he lifted himself off of his car.

"You're done, Dean," Sam disclosed, pointing a long finger at him. "I'm not letting you run this show anymore."

"Is that right?" Dean inquired, eyebrows rising.

"That's right," Sam was quick to answer. "You've caused enough damage, don't you think?"

"If that's what you want, Sam," Dean relinquished, shrugging his broad shoulders. "You wanna play _Daddy_? Be my guest."

"Good," Sam nodded triumphantly. "Now I'm gonna take Janie to get some ice for the fucking _welt_ on her cheek. When we get back, we're leaving." He spun on his heels, but then turned again to look at Dean. "And stay the hell out of our way. Janelle is _this_ close to breaking." And he made a gesture with his thumb and forefinger.

As Dean watched Sam retrieve Janelle, he thought, _Me too, Sammy_. He waited impatiently for the two to leave the room, and he didn't meet Janelle's eyes as they passed, bound for the ice machine. When they'd turned the corner, Dean rushed into the room. He had to know what she was digging for.

After quickly wrapping his bleeding arm in gauze, Dean used just his hands to pull the edges back until the hole was large enough for his arm, and then he reached inside, caring not for any malevolence that might be hiding within. His hand went blindly down, down, down, until his fingers collided with wood. That couldn't be _it_. He felt around for a moment, becoming angrier and angrier, and then his fingertips brushed a different texture – maybe leather. His hand glided across it just long enough for Dean to determine that what he was feeling was a book.

Dean yanked the book from its clever hiding place and stared at the indentation of a cross on the cover. He puffed a hard breath over the surface, grimacing when the cloud of dust flew up and away. Opening it carefully, he wasn't surprised to find a warning inscribed in Latin.

Is libri concedo tantum pro quos campana orbis. Vomica exsisto ullus quod totus quisnam lego lacuna quod insisto.

_This book yields only for whom the bell tolls. Cursed be any and all who read the words which follow._

"I'm already cursed," Dean muttered to himself, flipping the page. His eyes widened a bit to find that a book such as this contained a contents page. He read through the familiar names of badass demons who had mostly been banished back to Hell – a few of them by John Winchester himself – but then the third from the last name seemed to laugh at him.

_Elathan_.

Quickly flipping to the correct page, Dean's heart skipped too many beats. "Fuck me," he mumbled.

It was like a kick in the head reading the Latin words of _Exorcising the High-Ranking Demon of Elathan_. The incantation was unfamiliar, rightly so, but seemed authentic enough, and the bold fact that Janelle had somehow known it was there – right under their feet, waiting to be found – supported this.

"Go ahead and wait in the car, Janie," Sam's voice slithered into the room through the opened door.

Dean scrambled for a hiding place for the book; his bags were out because they were in plain view of the outside world, the car was a definite no, so he stashed the book in the back of his pants and yanked his shirt over it and hoped Sam wouldn't notice.

"Are you ready?" Sam's commanding voice demanded an answer as he stomped into the room just as Dean came to his feet.

"Yes, sir, General Lee," Dean mockingly replied, saluting his drill sergeant brother before grabbing his duffel of clothes and separate bag of weapons and heading out to the car hurriedly. He stopped, though, when he saw Janelle sitting in the front seat, holding a bag of ice to her cheek. "You've got to be kidding me," he growled.

"I told you were done, Dean," Sam said from behind him, slamming the motel room door.

"So you're putting me in the fucking _child_ seat?"

"You're acting like one, why not?" Sam shot back.

Dean shook his head. "Fuck you, Sam," he said, heading toward the back seat.

"Fuck you, Dean," Sam repeated. He realized too late that he was joining Dean in acting childishly, but that comment had seemed necessary.

Dean jerked open the door and threw his bags inside before climbing in after them. He was pissed. Since when did little Sammy grow big enough balls to punch out his older brother and to tell his older brother what to do and to use the words _fuck_ and _you_ and _Dean_ all in the same sentence?

Sam put the car in gear and peeled out of the motel parking lot after checking out. The atmosphere was irritatingly quiet, except for the occasional sniffles from Janelle, which tore at Dean's heart strings one by one. He couldn't apologize because Janelle wouldn't know what he was talking about, and Sam would offer up some wisecrack or flat out call him a liar and say that he didn't mean it.

So Dean kept his mouth shut, just like he knew Sam wanted. Janelle was silent, as well, with her knees tucked against her chest, chewing on her thumbnail. Sam drove with his eyes only on the road and occasionally on the rearview mirror to check for cops. But when they turned onto an older road that maybe twelve people knew about, he kicked the speedometer up to 70.

As Dean fingered one of the many holes in his jeans, he couldn't comprehend his own luck. A country road that was literally in the middle of nowhere? Maybe things were looking up. Maybe this was supposed to be his time to exorcise the demon and not wait until they got to New Mexico. He reached into the bag with the weapons near his feet and pulled out the crucifix and holy water, shoving them into his pockets.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean called, and he was about to continue when Sam interrupted him.

"_Sam_," his little brother growled.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Hey, Sa_mmm_," he exaggerated.

"What, Dean?"

"Pull over."


	21. Chapter Twenty One

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

"Pull over."

"Why?" Sam exclaimed, his eyes darting to the rearview.

"I gotta piss."

Sam sighed and his shoulders slumped. "Why the hell didn't you go before we left the motel?"

"Because I didn't have to go then, _Dad_," Dean argued. "Just pull the damn car over. It'll take five seconds, for fuck's sake."

Sam glanced at Janelle, who gave no indication she was even listening. Reluctantly, he let off the gas, pressed on the brake instead and pulled onto the side of the road, producing dust all around the car. "Five seconds, Dean," he advised.

Dean held up his first and middle fingers. "Peace," he remarked, kicking open his door. He watched from the corner of his eye as Sam shook his head and buried his face in his hands. As fast as he could, Dean ripped open the front passenger door and grabbed hold of Janelle. "Come with me, sweetheart," he said, shoving his hands beneath her arms and extracting her from the car.

"No!" Janelle squealed, clawing at the seat and door. "Sammy, help!"

Dean ignored the stab in his heart at Janelle's pleas for Sam's assistance and continued to drag her across the open field of grass. He didn't hear his little brother jump out of the car and run around the front without closing his door.

"Dean! What the hell are you doing?" Sam shouted.

"My job, Sam," Dean replied, setting Janelle's feet on the ground and then forcing her to her knees. She didn't put up much of a struggle after that, probably figuring Sam would rescue her, or Dean would hit her again.

"This is bad," Janelle whispered, her eyes surveying the open field and the bundle of trees behind them.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Dean chided.

"Dean, have you lost your fucking mind?" Sam screamed, running toward them.

"Sam, stay the hell away from here!" Dean commanded, pointing at him. "If anything happens to me, you'll need to get her to New Mexico."

"Dean, this is crazy!" Sam squeaked, his hands brushing through his hair as he regretfully came to a stop, closer to the car than he was to Dean and Janelle.

Dean whipped out the book from behind him and held it up to Janelle's face. "You see that?" He wasn't talking to Janelle. If it took taunting to bring that bastard out, he'd do it. "Bet you thought we wouldn't find that, didn't you?"

"What is that, Dean?" Sam demanded to know.

"This is what Janie was digging for at the motel," Dean said, for the first time turning his head to look at Sam. "Elathan has his own _fucking_ exorcism rite."

"This is bad, Dean," Janelle whimpered, grabbing onto his uninjured arm and gazing hard into his unrelenting eyes. She sniffed and tears fell from her eyes. "We should leave. Please?"

"I'm doing this for _you_, Janie," Dean reminded, lifting one of her hands to his mouth and kissing her knuckles. "It's always been for you." He dropped her hand and slipped his arm out of her other hand and then opened the book to the correct page.

"Dean, m-maybe we should listen to her," Sam suggested. "I mean, she-she could be right. This _has_ to be a bad idea."

Dean ignored him, holding the book up close enough so that his tired eyes could read the words. He took a deep breath, glancing at Janelle one last time before beginning. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."

"Janelle?" Sam ventured, upon noticing her eyes closed and her arms hanging limply at her sides. The wind picked up dramatically, and Sam's eyes wandered around curiously.

"Eradicare et effugare a Dei Ecclesia," Dean continued, taking Janelle's silence as a good sign. "Ab animabus ad imaginem Dei conditis ac pretioso divini Agni sanguine redemptis …"

"Oh, Dean Winchester," Janelle's voice took flight on the wind, which was rushing now with resemblance to a tornado, and dark clouds had formed above them. Her eyes opened to a familiar red and she smirked. "You think you are the all-knowing man, don't you?"

Dean's eyes widened and his mouth clamped shut.

"Why is it speaking English?" Sam breathed incredulously.

"N-non ultra audeas," Dean went on; though it was clear he'd been thrown. "Serpens callidissime …"

"You should have listened to sweet Janelle," Janelle said, rivers of red tears streaking her already-soaked cheeks. "Poor, sweet, innocent Janelle."

"Why her?" Dean suddenly inquired.

"You ignorant fool," Janelle growled. "You still think this is about _her_."

"It's not about her?" Dean said. "What the hell does that mean?"

Janelle's crimson eyes narrowed and her malicious smile widened. "You should have listened," she repeated, glancing knowingly at Sam.

Dean blinked and from the corner of his eye saw something black, something quick. Something he couldn't find after looking up.

"Dean!" Sam unexpectedly screamed, his usually calm and collected voice infiltrated with fright.

Dean spun around just in time to see a beast – all teeth and hair and height – grab Sam from behind and sink his God-awful crooked teeth into his baby brother's shoulder and neck.

"Sam!" Dean screeched, dropping the valuable book and running over to the sickening display near his car and the side of the road. "Hey!" He grabbed the animal's attention, knowing he wouldn't be able to defend himself should the monster come after him, but better him than Sammy. How could he not be packing? He always had some sort of weapon on him, but he hadn't thought about it today because of Janelle's episode … _Shit_. Was all of this planned?

The creature stared Dean down for several moments, holding Sam's lifeless body in his arms as if he were a treasure. Dean's teeth clenched – Sammy wasn't anybody's treasure. He was just about to take his chances with the beast when the thing dropped Sam and ran off.

Dean had never wanted to kill something so badly, but right now Sammy's injury was far more important. He ran to his brother's aid, falling to his knees immediately, and let out a surprised and painful gasp. Sam was bleeding profusely from the amazing wound in the curve between his neck and shoulder and he was squirming with pain, unable or uninterested in vocally displaying his misery.

"Sammy?" Dean breathed, his hands hovering over Sam's chest. He was afraid to actually touch him and bring him more agony. "Sammy? Can you hear me?"

"It killed me," Sam whispered, his words barely audible by his big brother. "It fucking killed me, Dean."

"No, it didn't," Dean growled. "You're gonna be fine." He looked into Sam's eyes. "We've been through worse, haven't we?"

Sam's eyes glazed a bit. "No."

Dean gulped, knowing he was right. None of the Winchesters had endured such an injury; such a bite. He left Sam's side momentarily to retrieve the first aid kit from the trunk even though they both knew it wouldn't do much good. Sam needed a doctor, or a healer, or he would most certainly die.

"Just calm down, Sammy," Dean coaxed, brushing his fingers through Sam's hair. Of course it would take such an accident to bring them closer together. "Everything's gonna be all right."

"Dean," Sam whimpered, grasping his brother's hand. Their fingers were slick with blood after Dean had covered Sam's gaping wound with a smallish towel.

"I'm gonna get you to the car, Sam," Dean interrupted, not entirely sure what he was even saying, "And we're gonna find a hospital, okay?"

"Dean," Sam repeated, tightening his grip on Dean's hand. "I don't wanna be one of those things." Dean looked at him. "I'd rather _die_ than be one of those things," he growled angrily.

Dean opened his mouth to answer when he suddenly noticed Janelle crawling toward them. Her eyes were no longer red, but the streaks had stained her hollowed cheeks. She carried the book with her and set it down next to Sam's head before reaching over Sam's body to Dean's neck. She grabbed at the amulet, yanked it off, and held it up.

"Help," she said pointedly.

Dean didn't even bother wasting time kicking his own ass for not remembering the very reason he'd received the charm, and he held it tightly in his hand, closing his eyes, angling his face toward the clearing sky, and howled, "_Mercy_!"

"You prayin' for me now?" Sam dryly chuckled, but the laugh caused him to choke and splutter as blood made its way out of his mouth and down his cheek. His brother ignored him by bowing his head, whispering words Sam couldn't understand.

"Shh, Sammy," Janelle breathed, crawling around his head to lie down on the ground beside him. She tucked her head into the uninjured side of his neck.

"Janelle, get away from there," Dean commanded, but Sam's hand tightened on his.

"She's warm," Sam forced out, bringing to light the magnitude of his trauma by slightly losing his voice.

"Are you cold?" Dean asked, scrambling to collect his leather jacket from the backseat, which he threw over Sam's midsection and Janelle's as well. He continued applying pressure to his little brother's massive wound and he winced when Sam groaned and squirmed with pain.

"I'm gonna bleed to death," Sam whispered.

"Oh, yeah?" Dean shot back, squeezing Sam's bloody hand with his own. He refused to notice just how cold Sam had become so quickly. "I didn't realize you were a med student, Sammy," he went on. "I thought you were gonna be a damned lawyer."

"It's Sam," Sam whispered so softly, his eyes fluttering closed against his pale cheeks.

"Hey," Dean yelled, smacking Sam's cheek repeatedly until his brother's eyes opened again. "Law school, right?"

"Law school," Sam reluctantly replied.

"Not med school?" Dean asked, staring with disdain at the soaked towel.

"No, not med school."

"Then we both agree that you, little brother, are in no position to be makin' your own medical diagnosis," Dean smiled.

"He's so tired," Janelle cried, fisting a hand in Sam's shirt and burying her face in his shoulder.

Sam glanced at Janelle's white hair, bringing up his left hand – the one he could still feel – to the back of her head. "It's okay, Janie," he breathed.

"It's not time to see Jessica," Janelle stammered. "It's not!"

Sam's dry, cracked lips smiled sadly as he looked up at Dean. "I think she's wrong," he stated.

Dean tilted his head and was about to refute that statement when there was another rush of wind, which would have been frightening after everything that had just happened, but then he caught the scent the wind carried: blood and roses. And relief washed over him like never before.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (PART ONE)**

"Dean."

Dean looked up and never thought he'd be so happy to see her again. "Mercy," he sighed. "Please help him."

Her violet eyes broke contact with Dean's to take in the sight of the wounded, dying man on the ground gasping for breath with a blonde curled around him. She inhaled deeply and her eyes widened. "He has your blood."

Dean nodded. "He's my brother."

Mercy immediately fell to her knees by Sam's head, placing her hands in the young man's sweat-soaked hair. "He's half in," she disclosed, looking frantically up at Dean.

"I can see that, Mercy," Dean growled, frustrated. "Can you help him?"

Mercy sighed. "Help me get him in the car. We're too open out here."

Dean nodded in agreement. "Yeah." He looked down at Janelle. "Janie, why don't you come around here, sweetheart?" He motioned to the grass next to him. He watched with blank eyes as she obeyed; crawling around Sam's long legs to get to Dean.

"Okay, lift him," Mercy instructed, positioning her hands beneath Sam's shoulders as Dean took hold of his legs. They turned him before Mercy climbed backward through the back door Dean had left open. She laid his head in her lap while Dean attempted to fold the rest of Sam's body into the backseat.

"Bend your legs, Sammy," Dean called. "Help me out here."

Weakly, Sam responded; bending his legs and resting them against the back of the seat. "I'm sorry for being abnormally tall," he whispered, gazing up at the pale, upside down face of the woman called _Mercy_.

Looking down, Mercy smiled warmly, caressing his clammy cheek. "It's all right, Sam. It's all right."

Before Dean could slam the door, Janelle jumped into the back. She crawled across the floorboards until she was on the other side where she could clearly see and feel Sam's face.

"Come sit up front with me, Janelle," Dean said, lacking the power he'd possessed only moments ago.

"She's fine," Mercy said. "Just drive, Dean."

Dean closed the door, quickly gathered up the things left on the grass, and slid across the hood of the Impala. When he was finally inside, he tossed the items onto the seat next to him, started the car, threw it into gear, and sped off with squealing tires.

"Easy!" Mercy commanded, struggling to keep Sam's head from jostling. "Now, what was he bit by?" she inquired, gently removing the towel, which had stuck to Sam's loose, ragged skin.

"A lycan," Dean answered, rubbing his face after wiping the blood from his hand onto his jeans.

Janelle blinked, and Mercy was suddenly sitting on top of Sam, straddling his waist. "Wow," she whispered incredulously.

Mercy winked at Janelle and returned her complete attention to Sam, whose heartbeat was unsteady. "Sam," she said, "You've been poisoned, but I'm sure you already knew that."

"Yeah, I was there," Sam sighed, turning his head to face Janelle, who was gazing warmly into his eyes.

"I'm a vampire, Sam," Mercy blurted, gaining back Sam's eyes, "And it is possible for me to suck out the poison, but I don't know how much blood you've lost, which means it's also possible …" She took a deep breath. "That I can drain you to death."

"Mercy, cut the hospital _shit_!" Dean yelled. "Do it!"

"Dean," Sam croaked, forcing his hand to hang over the front seat, not having to wait long before his brother gripped it with his own hand.

"It's all right, Sammy," Dean comforted. "You're not dying today, you hear me? Mercy's gonna get the poison out of you and then we're gonna get you to a hospital and you're gonna be back to your same old smartass self."

Sam's blurred vision attempted to focus on Janelle next, and she smiled comfortingly. "Are you sure it's not time to see Jess?" he whispered.

Dean's eyes shot to the rearview and met Mercy's soft purple gaze.

"No," Janelle breathed, shaking her head and brushing her fingers through Sam's now completely drenched brown hair. "It's not. I promise."

Sam nodded, though not entirely convinced, and looked up at Mercy. "All right," he sighed. "Do it."

Dean let out a breath, closing his eyes. He squeezed Sammy's cooling hand. "Good, Sam," he said. "You're gonna be all right."

The Impala's tire flew over an astonishing rock in the road, and Dean nearly lost control of the car with only one hand on the wheel.

"Dean!" Mercy exclaimed, having to cause Sam more pain by gripping his sides to keep him from rolling off the seat. "You've got to find a place to stop. He needs to be stable before I can start."

"Look around, Mercy!" Dean yelled. "We're in the middle of fuckin' nowhere!"

"That's not true," Janelle confessed, her eyes absolutely refusing to leave Sam's pale and sweaty face. "Soon. Soon there'll be a road to turn on. Soon." She nodded. "Places to stay."

Dean's teeth grinded, but he hadn't any other choice aside from trusting Janelle. He put the pedal to the floor and pushed Priscilla as far as she'd go. "Come on, baby," he said to her. "I need you now."

Janelle's lips spread into a smile and she reached out to touch the car's door. "You hear him, don't you?" she said.

"Please?" Dean went on. "I can't lose Sammy. I can't. Not now."

Suddenly the Impala roared and jumped forward, the speedometer almost unable to read how many miles per hour she was up to.

"Thank you," Dean said. "Just a little further. I hope."

Janelle's knack for being right continued when Dean spotted a road to turn on. He pumped the brake, shifted, and took the turn as easily as possible, as he had no desire to cause Sam anymore pain than he already had. After all, this entire ordeal had been his fault. Now it was time to make up for being such a bastard.

"So much blood," Janelle breathed, observing the rivers of red, which dripped from the Winchesters' clasped hands, as well as from the backseat where Sam was lying. Blood trickled off the leather and would've landed on the floorboards had Janelle not been sitting there. Instead, Sam's liquid life force rained down onto her jeans.

"Dean …" Mercy warned, taking notice of the blood all around them after Janelle's comment. She could smell it. It had been only mildly strong when she'd first arrived, but now, she was overcome by the scent and her stomach rumbled.

"I know," Dean interrupted. "I see a town." He clutched Sam's hand tighter, suddenly realizing that Sam was no longer reciprocating. "Sam?" he said. "Sammy?"

"He's in shock," Mercy disclosed. "We need a room _now_, Dean!"

Dean knew he could not push the Impala any harder without risking serious or permanent damage, but the cold, lifeless hand of his baby brother occupied his mind until he saw the first motel.

"Sammy," Janelle smiled, massaging Sam's forehead with her thumb. "It's okay. I'm gonna take care of you. You come and see me."

Dean parked the car and, as he was rushing toward the office to get a room, realized too late that his hands and shirt were covered in blood. Reluctantly, he ran back to the Impala, grabbed his navy blue jacket, threw it on, and hurried inside. He purchased a room with a stolen credit card as quickly as possible, and then drove around the small building to the correctly numbered room.

"All right, let's get him out," Mercy said when Dean opened the back door. She directed Janelle to open the motel room door as she and Dean carried Sammy inside, laying him on the bed nearest the door.

"What can I do?" Dean inquired, shucking his jacket again and resuming his position next to his little brother.

"Nothing," Mercy replied. "Just hold his hand and stay out of my way."

Dean grinded his teeth, knowing precisely how well he dealt with being completely helpless. He watched absentmindedly as Janelle crawled onto the bed and curled her body awkwardly around Sam's head – her head on one side of Sam's and her knees on the other side.

"If you can hear me, Sam, I'm going to bite you now," Mercy said loudly, ripping open Sam's shirts, sending buttons flittering across the room.

"Is he awake?" Dean wondered.

Mercy gulped. "I hope not. This'll hurt." She paused. "I might have to bite him as many as three times."

Dean's eyes shot up to her. "Why the hell for?" he demanded.

"To make sure I get all of the poison. I'll have to bite him in his chest, arm, and maybe his foot."

"Fine, whatever, just do it."

"Dean … Sam could bleed to death if he hasn't already succumbed to the poison."

Dean sighed depressingly and rubbed his forehead. "Can you tell me something good, Mercy?" he asked. "Tell me … that my brother won't die. Tell me you can save him before he bleeds to death right in front of me."

Mercy blinked and looked down.

"I'll do anything you want, Mercy," Dean went on. "I'll _give_ you anything you want. Just please … don't let Sammy die like this." He shook his head and finished with a whisper, "Not like this."

"Come with me, Sammy," Janelle whispered so that no one could make out what she was saying. She smoothed her hand over Sam's hair over and over. "Come walk with me."


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE**

Watching Sammy lie sedated in his hospital bed with tubes in his arms, a pulse ox clipped to his index finger, and heavy bandages around his throat, Dean thought clearly for the very first time since meeting the Markem family. He loved his brother more than anything, but he needed to do what was best for all concerned. And that meant leaving Sam in the hospital under the watchful purple eyes of Mercy while he finished the trek to New Mexico alone with Janelle and her "inner demon". He had to; it was his sole purpose in his probably short life.

"Have you called John?" Mercy wondered, sitting next to Dean and handing him a coffee (no sugar, no cream, same old Dean).

"Yeah," Dean said shortly, leaning back in his chair, sipping the bitter hospital coffee.

"And?"

"He didn't answer."

Mercy smirked balefully. "Sounds like John."

Dean nodded, glancing across the room to the other bed, which had been occupied by Janelle since they'd arrived. She'd slept most of the time with no problem, and Dean wished he could take that as a good sign.

"When are you taking off?" Mercy inquired.

"Tonight," Dean grumped, and then he cleared his throat. He turned to Mercy, saying, "You're gonna stay with Sam, right? You won't leave for anything?"

"You know I won't leave him," Mercy responded comfortingly. "I'm kind of fond of him, actually."

Dean sneered. "I'm serious, Mercy. Please don't leave him."

Mercy placed her cold hand over Dean's on his knee. "I promise I won't leave him, Dean. Your little brother is in good, cold hands."

"I'm handling this the right way, ain't I?" Dean asked, ignoring the joke Mercy'd tried to lighten the mood with. "I mean … I should leave Sam and take Janelle, right?"

Mercy would soon run out of patience for Dean's sudden incredible weakness and vulnerability, she knew for sure. What happened to the tough, shoot-first-ask-questions-later Billy the Kid-wannabe she'd fallen in love with?

"Stop looking at it that way, Dean," she insisted. "You're not leaving one for the other. You're protecting them both at the same time in the same way." She paused to touch his face – sprinkled with stubble – her fingers breezing across his soft hair. "Why don't you take Janelle back to the motel?" she recommended, glancing at both the youngest Winchester and the woman harvesting Elathan's demonic soul. "You both can have a nap and a shower before you leave."

"He's my brother, Mercy," Dean reminded. "The only family I have left."

"And he's perfectly stable," she countered. "I'm _not_ leaving."

"I could use a shower," Janelle unexpectedly spoke, sitting up in the overly oppressive hospital bed. Her empty, seen-way-too-much-for-her-age eyes met and locked with Dean's matching gaze. "And some more sleep."

"Yeah, okay," Dean sighed, standing unsteadily from his chair. He leaned over his baby brother's inanimate body, closely enough to whisper, "I'll be back, Sammy. I'll be back."

"Everything's gonna be okay, Dean," Mercy said.

Dean narrowed his eyes at her and couldn't stop an unbelieving laugh before turning back to Janelle. "Let's go, Janie." As Janelle hopped out of bed, Dean looked at Mercy. "Don't leave him alone. Not for anything."

At the motel, Dean lay on the bed nearest the door until Janelle fell back asleep on the opposite bed. He dragged his feet into the bathroom, closed the door halfway, and started the shower, but instead of shedding his clothes and stepping inside, he slumped into a sitting position against the porcelain tub. His hands shielded his face from the harsh fluorescent light, or maybe from a possible intrusion from Janelle.

A test. That's exactly what this entire job was: a test. He was being tested by the Hunting Gods and he wasn't about to fail now. Janelle was not going to be the cause of Doomsday and Sammy was not slated to be a sacrifice, either.

Dean sighed after a moment, discarded his clothing, and stepped under the scalding spray of the shower head. As he closed his eyes, all he could see was his younger brother's pale, wounded, broken body surrounded completely by white. Dean tried to tell himself that it was the white sterile environment of the hospital and not … something _else_.

When the shower was finished a full fifteen minutes later, Dean dried off, considered shaving (decided against it), and dressed in the freshest pair of clothes he had in his bag. Stepping out of the bathroom almost a half hour after stepping inside, he discovered Janelle sitting on the edge of her bed, clutching her chest and hyperventilating.

"What's wrong?" Dean demanded, rushing over to her.

"Nothing, I just … lost my breath for a minute." She met his eyes. "Bad dreams."

Dean nodded, brushing Janelle's hair from her face. "Yeah, seems to be going around." He inspected her face, noting the heavy bags under her eyes, the tinge of red in the whites of her eyes, her dry lips, and the galvanic bruise on her cheek from his own damn fist. "I'm …" He stopped for reasons unknown. "You gonna try and sleep some more?"

Janelle breathed a laugh, shaking her head. "Probably not a good idea. But you can. I want you to."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "I'll try. But you'll be okay?"

She smiled. "Sure. And I'll wake you up if there's anything I need."

Dean chuckled. "Catchin' on fast, kid." He stood up and placed a kiss on the top of her head. He shucked only his tee-shirt in case of emergency and all but plummeted onto his bed, falling asleep almost immediately after.

_She leans forward to lick a warm, wet streak from his neck to behind his ear. "Tonight's been about me," she breathes hotly against his skin, "And don't think I haven't appreciated it." She giggles while she maneuvers Dean onto his back beneath her. "But now it's your turn." Her hands caress the sensitive flesh of his chest and shoulders, and he licks his lips. "Tell me what you want." Her body is suddenly pressed flush against his; her breasts crushed into his chest. "Tell me a kink," she begs, nipping at his earlobe._

_Dean's back arches involuntarily. "Fingers," he discloses without a second thought._

_Janelle's eyebrows rise inquisitively and she smirks like a goddamn succubus waiting to sink her teeth into him. "Fingers, huh?" she asks, her eyes briefly leaving his as she grabs his hand and lifts it to her seductive mouth. Her tongue darts out to lick the tip before, at an excruciatingly slow pace, takes his index finger into her hot mouth. Her tongue swirls and rolls as the digit eventually disappears entirely behind her beautiful lips._

"_God," Dean moans, realizing the finger in her mouth is the very one he'd used to bury within her and bring her to a quick orgasm earlier in the night. His head becomes heavy when it's lifted to watch and it falls backward onto the pillow. "Harder," he orders, his other hand pressing hard against his groin to keep from coming prematurely. "Do it harder."_

_Instead, her mouth comes off and she's smiling with an honest-to-God frightening grin. "I have a better idea," she says. And, by God, if that isn't a dead giveaway of what's to come._

_Janelle straddles his legs and kisses his chest and lower and he knows what her mouth is promising. He wants to tell her to stop – that she really doesn't have to do this – but his mouth is dry and all the blood from his brain has gone south for the evening._

"_Relax," she whispers between kisses on his stomach and her tongue in his navel._

_He nods unknowingly, his eyes closing, as his hands claw at the sheets. When his boxers are pulled down his hips, everything becomes clear and real and there's nothing he needs more than her voluptuous mouth on his straining erection._

_Her lips nervously close around him, and his eyes dart open. Looking down at her – on her elbows and knees, ass in the air, lips obscenely red and stretched around him – he knows this is what Heaven feels like and he can't wait to die. She's inexperienced, very inexperienced, but it's an unbelievable turn on to know that she's only so far considered doing this for him. It's conceivable corruption caused by himself is upon her, and he's proud to be an enabler._

"_God, Janelle," he sighs, threading his fingers through her alabaster hair, brushing it to one side of her head. He pumps once gently into her scorching mouth as encouragement, and she groans appreciatively._

_His orgasm rips through him unexpectedly before he has the time to warn her, and the hand on her head tightens, unintentionally imprisoning her, making her swallow. She doesn't protest or even struggle, just takes it until he's done giving it._

"_Oh, my God," Dean bellows, and Janelle laughs, causing him to smile as well. He replaces his boxers and pulls her up to lie next to him. "I think you broke me."_

"_Not a bad way to go," Janelle comments._

Dean was roused by the crinkling of paper. Lifting his head, he rubbed his eyes tiredly, glancing after at the bed next to him. Empty. He was up immediately, fully awake, heart pounding, as he searched for Janelle. Turning over onto his back, he sighed upon locating her sitting at the lonesome table with dripping wet hair, scribbling furiously on the motel stationary.

"Janelle?" he rasped.

She jumped and looked at him. "Oh, hey, Dean," she smiled awkwardly. "I didn't wake you, did I?" She wasn't reduced back to a fumbling child. Point for the Home Team.

"No." He shook his head, coughing more heavily than normal after awaking, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "It's time to go, anyway," he said, glancing at the digital clock that now read 4:57 in the morning.

"Can you read this?" Janelle asked, holding the papers out in front of Dean, who took them from her and examined them as closely as his tired eyes would allow.

"Did-did you write this?" Dean hesitantly asked.

"Yeah," Janelle whispered, "But that's not my handwriting."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I know." He looked up at her. "It's Sam's."

"I really wish I could say that's the strangest thing that's happened to me," Janelle commented honestly. When Dean didn't reply, she said, "What does it say? His handwriting isn't exactly legible."

Dean grunted. "Yeah, tell me about it. It's, uh, it's an address. In Amarillo, Texas. It says the people there need help."

"Should we go?"

"I guess that all depends on you and how you feel."

Janelle shrugged. "I feel okay. Been better, but under the circumstances, I'd give myself a clean bill of health. For the time being."

"Well, then … let's ramble."

While Dean looked over a map of Texas spread out on the hood of his car, Janelle was handed several dollars worth of change and instructed to hit the vending machines, as they would not make any more unnecessary stops between here and New Mexico.

With his finger on Elk City, Oklahoma – where they now resided – Dean's forefinger glided over to Amarillo, Texas. "Elk City to Amarillo is … two hours, give or take," he muttered to himself. "Amarillo to Tucumcari is … an hour. Tucumcari to Albuquerque … another hour." He paused and realized that all of this would end on this very day. "Four hours. Hold it together for four hours."

"Hello, Mr. Winchester."

Dean spun around unsteadily, his gaze meeting white irises around tiny black pupils. No wonder he didn't instantly recognize the voice, as it was coated with an English accent. "Matthew."

"Am delighted you remember my name, son," Janelle beamed, though it wasn't Janelle. Her body was a vessel, and Dean couldn't agree with the way it was being treated.

"I'm not your son," Dean grumbled. "In fact, I don't even really wanna be your _employee_."

"Well, like it or not, you do need me," she argued evenly. "This place … this Amarillo, Texas … should you choose not to take me with you, you will die, Janelle will die, the world will die. Make your choice."

"_Why_ does everything have to be goddamn riddles with you fuckin' people?" Dean yelled, loudly enough for a family of four climbing into their mini-van to turn and stare. Dean had no common courtesy left to wave and pretend that everything was all right. Everything was far from all right.

"Take caution in your tone and language, Mr. Winchester," Janelle's voice was low and evil, contradicting the white goodness in her eyes. "Am here to help you, not fight with you."

"Why'd it take you so long to _help out_?" Dean growled.

"You were doing just fine. A little more reckless than I would have liked, but you got the job done and took things in your stride. Including the loss of a good soldier." Dean's eyes were blank. "Your brother."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he pointed a finger at her. "You don't get to talk about him. Where were _you_ when he got bit, huh? Where was your _help_ then?"

"You have a problem understanding that some things are predestined. You cannot stop them, and neither can I. Sam's extraction was not my fault."

"Whatever," Dean shook his head. "Get in the car."

Janelle watched with narrowed bright eyes as Dean climbed into the driver's seat. "Ordering me around is not allowed, either," she muttered, moving toward the passenger door. When her left leg wouldn't move, she paused momentarily and sharply cocked her head. "Never a good sign." Her leg jerked into motion, allowing her to join Dean inside the Impala. "Time to hurry, Mr. Winchester."

"Copy that, Cap'n," Dean sighed.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

_I posted the first chapter of this story on October 12, 2005, and I'll be posting the very last chapter on October 12, 2006. Thank you to everyone who's been reading, everyone who has alerts for chapters, and especially those of you who've been reviewing._

_Any and all reviews from here on out are encouraged and much appreciated. Thanks for reading!_

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR**

Dean and Janelle – Matthew – rambled on into Amarillo, Texas around eight in the morning on a Friday. Three gas station attendants and an old woman getting her mail later, he obtained the correct directions to the address Janelle had auto written under Sam's mystical direction. It was a farmhouse on the outside of town, and Dean appreciated the isolation.

"Have any idea what's goin' on?" Dean asked, putting the car in park.

"None," Janelle replied.

"That must be the help you were talkin' about," Dean muttered, reaching for the door when his cell phone rang and vibrated against his side. Pulling it out, he greeted the caller with his less-than-cheerful attitude. "What?"

"Hey, Dean."

Dean's heart stopped mid-beat and he breathed a relieved laugh. "Sammy. How are you? You all right?"

"I'm fine," Sam whispered. "Did you get my note?"

"Interesting way to send it, little brother."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

"How'd you do it?"

"I don't know. Just … did it. How're things going with you?"

"Well, Janelle's back to being Matthew. This guy says he has to help me take care of this thing in Amarillo …" Dean glanced up and saw that Janelle was walking – robotically – toward the front door. "I-I gotta go, Sammy. But you're feelin' okay, right?"

Sam sighed, but Dean could hear his smile. "I'm okay."

Dean nodded, though Sam couldn't see it, and surpassed awkward goodbyes by snapping his phone closed. Dropping it back into his pocket, he hurried out of the car, across the lawn, and up the stairs to the porch where Janelle now stood.

"We need to hurry," she pointed out.

Dean rolled his eyes. "When has speed never been an issue with this case?"

"This is not a case, Mr. Winchester!" Janelle shouted, the English accent a mite thicker. "This is _the_ case!"

"Oh, ooh, excuse me all to hell," Dean jested, gazing hard at the wooden door.

"Your attitude is irrelevant and quite aggravating," Janelle said haughtily.

"Yeah, but it's damn funny."

The door opened, but instead of seeing some hideous monster or even an adult on the other side, a little girl stood before them, staring up at them with huge blue eyes behind thick brown bangs.

"Hello, darling," Janelle smiled. "My name is M … Janelle."

"I know," the little girl nodded. "I dreamed about you."

"Cordy, what did I tell you about answering the door?" a woman hollered from up the staircase.

Dean and Janelle watched the girl's mother rush down the stairs and take her daughter into her arms.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked.

"We, uh …" Dean began.

"Are here to help," Janelle completed.

"Mommy, that's the lady from my dream," Cordy said. "The lady with the white hair."

"Hush, sweetheart. Here to help with what?" the woman asked.

"The spirit here," Janelle answered before Dean could conjure up a descent non-truth explanation. His head snapped in her direction; eyes wide, mouth agape, and shook his head disapprovingly. He noticed then that somehow her eyes had taken on an almost green-looking color, but they still appeared supernatural.

"How did you know about the spirit?" the woman inquired, clutching her daughter closer to her chest.

"Malevolence," Janelle mumbled, passing the woman and her child, looking around the room intently. "Murderous." She glanced at the woman knowingly.

"It's tried to kill my husband."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "Uh, what's your name?" he interjected.

"Oh, Maggie. And this is Cordelia."

"My name's Dean Winchester. That's …" He pointed to Janelle, who was now touching things on the wall and dressers. "Janelle. Well, sometimes, anyway."

"Winchester?" Maggie asked. "I knew you looked familiar." Dean shook his head confusedly. "John is a friend."

Dean nodded, dramatically rolling his eyes. "Happy to hear it. I'll be right back. Gotta make a stop at my trunk." He turned to Janelle. "Hey, _Janelle_." Her head turned to him, her chin almost completely passing her shoulder. "Don't do anything without me."

Dean jogged back to the Impala and opened the trunk. He gathered up a sawed-off shotgun, several rounds of rock salt, his walkman/EMF detector, and a loaded handgun for precaution. Not that he thought he might have to shoot Mom or little Cordelia or even Janelle – Matthew – he just felt better with it tucked safely into his pants.

Reentering the living room, he became quickly on guard with the sudden drop in temperature. "Guess I won't be needing this," Dean muttered, stuffing the EMF detector into his jacket pocket.

A door slammed somewhere upstairs, and Maggie nearly came out of her skin. "She knows you're here," she wept, retreating into the corner between the living room and the staircase.

"She?" Dean inquired, wishing people would just be entirely forthcoming with all of their problems.

"The spirit," Janelle clarified, spinning to face him. "It's a woman." She smiled quickly and extremely brightly. "Are you familiar with the Bell Witch?"

"Hell yes," Dean beamed proudly. "Me and Dad toe-tagged that bitch for the second time a couple years back." He glanced at Maggie. "Well, we didn't actually toe-tag her, but we vanquished the hell out of her."

"This spirit is like her," Janelle went on. "She hates men."

A chill ran down Dean's spine and his eyes languidly moved from Janelle to the bottom of the staircase and then climbed up until he was staring at the spirit in question. Her gray hair was long and frazzled and instead of a mouth and nose, there were only bones and teeth and hanging flesh. She was completely translucent, but as her blood red eyes fixed on Dean, he could feel the hatred and murderous intentions, which were all directed at him. He was kind of used to it by now.

"Howdy, ma'am!" he greeted cheerfully, slowly raising his shotgun. "My name's Dean, and you are?"

"You're not welcome here," the spirit replied, sounding somewhat more pleasant than her physical appearance suggested. "Get out."

"Ah, man. And I was just starting to get comfortable," Dean pouted, aiming the shotgun filled with rock salt at the spirit and pulling the trigger, but her form dissipated before penetration. "Damn!"

"She is too smart for a hunter of only twenty-two years," Janelle said, her eyes shooting up to the ceiling and then off to the left. "Been doing this for hundreds of years. Is that right?"

Dean ducked when a vase was chucked at his head. "Guess that's a yes," he mumbled. He looked at Janelle. "All right, damn it, if you know so much about this spirit, do you know where her bones are so I can salt and burn the shit out of them?"

Janelle's eyes narrowed and her brows furrowed. "Complicated."

"That's fantastic," Dean grumbled. "So, what do we do?"

"You die," the sinister voice of the spirit hissed before Dean was thrown against a decorated wall, which knocked said decorations onto Dean's body, including his head, as he lay on the floor.

"Ow," he whined, rolling his eyes, brushing the items off of him, having no regard for breaking anything. His cell phone rang and he wouldn't have answered it if Sam wasn't in the hospital. "What?"

"You can't beat it," Sam's voice said. "The spirit; you can't beat it, Dean."

"There's some comforting news, Sammy. Now what do I do?" Dean asked, his head thumping against the floor.

"Nothing."

"What?"

"There's nothing you _can_ do."

"Dude, what …?" He couldn't finish before an invisible force tightened around his throat, yanking him roughly to his feet. He was then shoved into the wall and lifted off the floor. He gagged and choked, scratching at his throat to relieve some pressure, but there was nothing to grab at. His cell phone had long since dropped to the floor and he thought maybe he could hear Sam yelling his name.

"Little help here," he forced out, eyes bulging from his head at Janelle.

"Now you want my help, Mr. Winchester?" Janelle asked.

"Yes," Dean croaked.

Janelle tilted her head. "Say please."

Dean groaned as his head and neck throbbed. "Please?"

Janelle smirked, suddenly thrusting her fist forward almost into Dean's chest. A blue light ignited around her hand, and the form of the old woman began to take shape from the light. The spirit's grip tightened around Dean's neck just as Janelle twisted her fist and yanked the shining burst of blue light from her chest. Dean immediately fell to the ground yet again, gasping desperately for sweet oxygen, and the spirit's form disappeared.

"Dean!" Sam could clearly be heard now screaming frantically in the background for his brother.

As soon as Dean caught even a little bit of breath, he reached for his cell phone and held it shakily to his ear. "Sam?" he rasped, massaging his throat with his thumb and forefinger.

"Dean," Sam sighed. "What happened?"

"What, you don't know?"

"Very funny."

"I about got strangled to death. I'm fine, by the way. Then Matthew grabbed some blue thing out of the ghost's chest and she disappeared."

"Her spirit," Sam said thoughtfully.

Dean rolled his eyes. "So not in the mood for your big brain right now, Sammy. I'll call you later." He hung up. Taking an uncountable amount of deep, soothing breaths, he came to his feet unsteadily, clutching his throat carefully. "You're an asshole," he accused Matthew.

Janelle stepped forward, her eyes returning to white and filling with confrontation. "Do you feel better?" she asked arrogantly.

Dean thought for a minute before raising his eyebrows and shrugging. "Yes, I do," he answered, strutting past her to gather his shotgun, which had been knocked from his hands earlier.

"Thank you!" Maggie exclaimed. "Thank you so much!"

"No problem," Dean respired. "All in a day's work." He glanced at Janelle and nodded toward the door. "Let's get out of here."

Janelle followed Dean obediently, smiling half-heartedly at the little girl named Cordelia as she exited the home during Maggie's gracious thank-yous. Dean opened the passenger door for her and then headed back to the trunk to put away his shotgun and EMF detector. Reaching up to close it, he instead leaned on the trunk door, dropped his head and closed his eyes. He rubbed his neck for a moment and then his shoulder.

"Too sick to drive, Mr. Winchester?" Janelle's voice echoed, and Dean grumbled obscenities as he slammed the trunk and hobbled around to the driver's side.

"Do you even know how to drive?" he asked curiously.

"Actually, I do not," Janelle replied, eyes sparkling. "But Janelle does."

Dean had nothing to say as he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the gravel driveway, headed west toward Tucumcari, New Mexico. As he drove, he noticed miniscule changes in the atmosphere around him: the air became dense, causing his ears to pop. As he cursed under his breath, the sky quickly darkened to a sickening shade of green. Dean was familiar with these signs; he'd lived in Kansas and had been through his fair share of tornados.

This wasn't going to stop him. He'd been stopped and sidetracked too many times; enough was enough. He stomped his foot on the gas just as he caught sight of a stop sign up ahead. Getting stopped by some police officer would've taken more time than stopping at a stop sign, so he pumped the gas, wondered why, and then slammed the brake to the floor. The Impala's tires squealed to a smoky halt as the fender barely crossed the line into the four-way intersection.

"Sorry, baby," he apologized to Priscilla.

"Are you ready?" Janelle asked, turning her white eyes on Dean.

Dean looked at her. "Ready for what?" She smiled quickly before opening the door and jumping out. "Hey!" Dean yelled, reaching over to grab her arm, but missing by mere centimeters. "Get back here!"

He watched shocked as Janelle ran into the middle of the intersection and extended her arms at her sides. Dean put the car in park, opened his door, and started to run over to retrieve Janelle when a bolt of lightning lunged from the sky, striking the top of Janelle's head and radiating electricity throughout her entire body. The force of the energy threw Dean backward off his feet and he landed hard on his back on the cruel pavement. He blew out a slow breath and his eyes grew heavy until they closed and Dean passed out.


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

_Guess no one's interested in reviewing still, but thanks for reading, anyway. It's appreciated._

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE**

Dean sucked in a breath and lifted his head suddenly as his body jerked to life. He expected to be in some sort of pain, but there was only a dull throbbing present in his back. Aside from that, he felt somewhat refreshed. Until he remembered what had happened to Janelle before he'd passed out.

"Janie?" he said, and then cleared his throat to say it louder. "Janelle?" He sat up, paused a moment, and climbed to his feet. The Impala was in the same place he'd parked her, and Janelle was now lying in the middle of the intersection. He ran to her as fast as his legs would permit and fell hard to his knees beside her inanimate body.

"Janelle?" he whispered this time. He brushed his fingers through her hair, eyes widening when he noticed that her hair was no longer soft and white, but a frail gray. Her body was shivering, her breath came in short gasps, and the palms of her hands were bleeding from small wounds that went through and through.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, recognizing the meaning behind her bleeding hands immediately. _Stigmata_. "Son of a bitch," he repeated, completely shell-shocked. After everything that had happened, _stigmata_ was the very last thing he'd expected to happen to someone like Janelle, who'd stated with much conviction that she wasn't religious and she hated God.

"Sam?" Janelle whimpered between gasps.

"No, it's Dean. I'm here," Dean said, ungluing his eyes from her bleeding hands to look at her face. Her eyes fluttered open and they weren't their natural green, nor were they Matthew's clear white; they seemed dirty and milky with no pupils and no irises. They were blank and empty and unseeing.

Janelle reached a trembling, bleeding hand into the air as she blindly searched for Dean's face. He understood and gently took her hand into his, guiding it to his cheek, and her lips cracked a smile.

"I can't see you," she cried, blinking and speaking and moving languidly as if everything was playing slow motion.

"But you can feel me," Dean reminded.

Janelle nodded. "Where's Sam?"

Dean tilted his head. "He's not here right now. But he's … he's on his way. Okay?" She nodded again. "Come on, sweetie, you gotta get out of the road." He wrapped an arm around her waist and took hold of her wrist as he pulled her to her feet where her knees unexpectedly gave out. Dean held fast and practically dragged her to the passenger side where the door had been left open by Matthew.

"Is Sam okay?" Janelle asked, lying her head against the seat.

Dean nodded as he searched through the trunk for gauze and two other items he hadn't even seen in a while, but were a gift from Sam some years ago. "Sam is fine," Dean confirmed, descending to his knees and taking her left hand into his. He cleaned the wound with alcohol; though he wasn't sure he needed it, and dressed it in clean gauze. He started with the right hand.

"It wasn't supposed to be you," Janelle whispered.

Dean glanced up at her. "What do you mean?"

"Not you," she repeated.

Dean shrugged, finishing dressing her right hand. He pulled out the items from the trunk, smiled at the memory and the size compared to Janelle's hand, and then he slipped the black fingerless gloves gently onto her hands. He pulled the Velcro strips tightly across her wrists to keep them on, which would in turn help keep the gauze on and undamaged.

Next he lifted her legs into the car and made sure she was out of the way before closing the door. He tossed the first aid kit back into the trunk and searched through his bag for the only white tank top he owned. He discarded the black tee-shirt he wore, threw the tank top on, and slammed the trunk closed. The heat was unbearable and it would only get worse as they neared New Mexico.

"Sam?" Janelle asked, still quiet and almost unnoticed.

Dean looked at her. "No, Janie, it's still me." Her eyes were disturbing as they stared in his general direction. "Sam's okay, remember? He's on his way."

Janelle moved forward, lying down with her head on his thigh. Her body still shook, causing her teeth to chatter. "Dean."

"Yeah, Janie?" He curled his hand around her head to cup her cheek.

"Will you tell him?"

"Tell who what?"

"Tell Sam. Tell Sam that I love him." Dean's eyebrows furrowed and he glanced down at her confusedly. "Will you t-tell him for me?"

Dean gulped. "I'll tell him."

Continuing on toward their final destination, Dean drove more carefully and more closely – but still above – the speed limit. He cradled Janelle's delicate head in his hand, holding it against his thigh whenever a bump or pothole came into view. He wondered if she was thinking and if she was, what were her thoughts? He could've asked her, he supposed, but the silence was nice. However, he knew he was only terrified of Janelle mentioning Sam and her so-called "love" for him.

Dean had so many questions concerning Sam and Janelle. Had they spent time together that he didn't know about? Had the two of them met previously? Or was Janelle simply delusional and mistaking Sam for someone else?

---

"He's on his way?" Sam asked, buckling his belt and then pulling on a tee-shirt.

"He's on his way," Mercy confirmed, nodding. "He wasn't too thrilled about flying, but when I told him what was going on, he booked the first flight to Albuquerque."

"And he's good, right? He can get the job done?"

Mercy chuckled. "You'll never know how good he is until you see John Constantine in action. But yes, he is that good."

Sam ran both hands through his hair and sighed heavily. The migraine accompanying his latest vision was still working on his brain and the lights were harsh on his eyes. He'd considered calling and telling Dean the information he'd acquired from it, but he decided against it. For Dean's sake.

"Are you sure you don't want to call Dean?" Mercy questioned.

"No," Sam quickly replied. "If he knew, he wouldn't go to New Mexico. I know Dean."

Mercy nodded. "Will you ever tell him?"

Sam gulped and shrugged. "I don't know. Are you ready?"

"I'm ready if you are."

Sam nodded. "Let's go."

Mercy took his hands into hers and held them tightly. "Remember … it's very disorienting during and after, so don't rush yourself when we get there, you understand? You're definitely stronger now, but the effects could still work you over."

"Just get me to New Mexico before Dean, Mercy," Sam said.

"Close your eyes."

Seconds later, Sam's hospital room was empty.

---

"Janie, you wanna hear some music?" Dean asked, leaning down as far as he could without crushing Janelle's head against his stomach to grab for his box of cassettes. Janelle didn't answer, but Dean stuffed a tape into the player, anyway. 'Baby, I'm Gonna Leave You' filtered through the speakers as Dean turned the volume down.

"You're not leaving," Janelle mumbled nearly incoherently, still shaking and still bleeding from her hands.

"No, Janelle, it's just a song. I'm not leaving, okay, sweetheart? I'm not goin' anywhere." He idly carded his fingers through her hair as he watched the dashed yellow lines on the road, occasionally glancing at the speed limit signs that passed every now and then.

"I'm sorry about all of this, Dean," Janelle said.

Dean knew it was probably best to keep her talking in case she lost consciousness and consequently never woke up. "What do you have to be sorry for?" he questioned.

"It's all my fault," Janelle confessed. "It came after me, but it hurt you and Sam. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Janelle. Me and Sam do this for people everyday, okay? And we are _not_ sorry we met you."

"I'm not sorry I met you, either."

---

"Sir!"

No response.

"Sir, please open the door!"

The tiny bathroom door slammed open and the flight attendant jumped back from the man in the cheap suit.

"Sir, you are not allowed to smoke on this flight," the woman said.

John Constantine shrugged irritably and shook his head. "I wasn't smoking."

"Sir," the flight attendant pressed. "You may not go to the bathroom alone for the remainder of the flight and the police will be waiting for you when we land."

Constantine stared her down until she stepped aside so he could return to his seat. The passengers scowled in his direction, and Constantine let a smirk grace his lips as he fell back into his seat. If only these people knew what he was flying to New Mexico to do, they'd be begging him to smoke, he thought.

---

Nearly two hours later, Dean passed the sign informing him he was driving into Albuquerque, New Mexico. He felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. He felt like channeling Jack Dawson from _Titanic_ and screaming, "I'm the king of the world!" Then he became ashamed for ever having watched that movie on cable only days after Sam had left for college.

"We're here, Janie," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder. She'd since rolled onto her other side, still hugging her hands to her chest. She didn't respond in any way, and Dean figured she was sleeping because she was still breathing normally and moving periodically presumably to find a more comforting position.

"Janelle, wake up," Dean declared, squeezing more forcefully and shaking her this time. She stirred, but only a little, and kept her same position.

"I'm so tired," she exhaled, pressing her face into his thigh just above his knee.

"I know, but we're right there. Just a few more minutes."

"I wanna sleep."

"No," Dean enounced. "I want you to sit up and stay awake." When she didn't obey, he placed his hand under her neck and began to lift her. "Come on, Janelle. Get up." Unenthusiastically, Janelle raised her body into a sitting position without the use of her hands. "Good. There ya go," Dean praised.

"I'm scared," Janelle confided, lying her head back against the seat and turning it to face Dean, though she couldn't see him. "What if it doesn't work?"

"It will," Dean managed.

"But you're not sure," Janelle nodded. "That's okay, you don't have to be."

"But I am," Dean argued. "It will work, Janelle." He glanced at her. "We've come too far for it not to."


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX**

Dean parked the Impala in front of the church and, even after so many days, thought it odd he hadn't heard from Malcolm Rose about how much time he'd taken in getting there. Not that he cared what Mal said to him, but it was still a bit discomforting.

"We're here," he announced, hopping out of the car and jogging around the front. "Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess," Janelle mumbled, hooking an arm around Dean's shoulders as he lifted her out of the car and scooped her into his arms. Dean kicked the door shut, situated her in his arms, and headed for the door. Janelle sniffed the air. "Do you smell that?" she asked gruffly.

"Smell what?" Dean frowned.

"Smoke." She turned her head toward the door to the church. "Cigarette smoke."

The doors swung open then, and Dean halted immediately, his grip tightening on Janelle's legs and shoulders. A man exited dressed in a suit designed for funeral attendance with a cigarette snuggled between two fingers.

Dean stared up at this peculiar man until realization dawned on him. "John Constantine."

Constantine hardly acknowledged Dean while dropping his cigarette to the pavement and stomping on it with a black boot. Exhaling a plume of smoke, he approached Dean and Janelle.

"Give her to me," Constantine said hastily. "I'll need the book you found in the motel room." Although Dean was reluctant to hand over care on such short notice, he remembered his father having only positive things to say about John Constantine, and he allowed the man to steal Janelle from his grasp. "This way," Constantine instructed, heading back into the church.

Dean trailed behind Constantine – after obtaining the book – inside the church, having no control over himself as he gazed at the incredibly painted windows, statues, and altar. He'd been here several times in the past, but he couldn't recall it being so beautiful, or daunting. Something was off. Where was Malcolm?

Constantine hauled Janelle's inanimate body into a back room. He sat her up in a huge wooden chair complete with hard restraints and handcuffs, as well as a leather piece meant to wrap around her head to keep it in place. To Dean, it reminded him of the electric chair.

"Where's Malcolm?" he implored tentatively.

"He's dead," Constantine shortly reported.

Dean flinched and his eyes widened. "What? How?"

Constantine gave Dean a fleeting look as he strapped Janelle to the chair. "I killed him."

"Why?" Dean interrogated. "Why the hell did you do that for?"

"Because he was working for this demon," Constantine calmly replied.

Dean nodded, smiling disgustedly. _Figures_. No wonder Malcolm had been so adamant about getting Janelle to his church and why he never left his sanctuary. _Fucking figures_.

"Do you know why it went after Janelle?" he nagged, watching Constantine fasten Janelle's ankles to the chair's legs.

Constantine's eyes never left the floor. "No."

Dean shook his head disbelievingly. "Look, if you know something, tell me!" he shouted.

Constantine flew to his feet and stepped into Dean's space. "Look, _kid_, I don't _know_ anything!" he retorted, throwing his arms wildly at his sides to exaggerate his point.

Dean's eyes narrowed into slits and his mouth formed a snarl. "You know somethin'," he growled.

Constantine huffed and turned back to Janelle. "Help me get these off." He started to pull at the gloves on her hands.

"Why? She'll bleed all over the place!"

"That's sort of the point."

Dean didn't understand, but he thought he probably didn't need to, and he assisted in the removal of his own black gloves from Janelle's dainty hands. The men dislodged the bandages next, and blood dashed from perfect holes in the palms of her hands that went straight through. Dean had seen a lot of blood in his time, but this time seemed to make him just a mite queasy.

"You ready?" Constantine asked, stepping back slowly from Janelle. He'd chosen not to strap her head to the chair, so it hung deadly against her chest.

"What can I do?" Dean asked.

Constantine glanced slowly at Dean as he took the black book with some variation of the Cross on the cover from Dean, and then fished out a silver flask from an inside pocket of his jacket. He unscrewed the cap and downed a huge gulp before holding it out to Dean without looking at him.

Dean curiously took the flask from John Constantine, shrugged, and knocked back a swallow. His brows furrowed. "It's water," he deadpanned.

"Holy water," Constantine corrected, stealing the flask back.

"Right," Dean said complacently.

Constantine opened the book to somewhere in the middle and began, obviously translating the Latin to English, "We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean spirits, all satanic powers, all infernal invaders, all wicked legions, assemblies and sects." His voice was firm, demanding. "In the Name and by the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ …" He drew a cross in the air before Janelle's head, which shot up suddenly, and she screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Dean!" she shrieked, her arms ripping and pulling at the restraints, but remaining unsuccessful. "What's happening? Help me!"

Dean made no move to assist her, as he knew it wasn't Janelle.

"May you be snatched away and driven from the Church of God and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the Precious Blood of the Divine Lamb," Constantine completed, drawing another cross.

"Dean, please help me," Janelle beseeched, tears falling from her blind eyes.

"Most cunning serpent, you shall no more dare to deceive the human race, persecute the Church, torment God's elect and sift them as wheat," Constantine admonished, drawing a cross and glaring hard at Janelle. He was waiting patiently for the demon to make itself known. "The Most High God commands you, He with whom, in your great insolence, you still claim to be equal."

"Equal?" Janelle spoke, her voice now betraying her body with egotism. "I'm as equal as they come." She smiled seductively in Constantine's direction, cocking her head sharply to one side. "And you know it."

"Hello, Elathan," Constantine's deep voice greeted rather bitterly.

"Constantine. The plan is to exorcise me?"

"Something like that."

"It's too late for that now."

"Well, let's see." His eyes returned to the book. "The sacred Sign of the Cross commands you," he relayed. "The glorious Mother of God, the Virgin Mary, commands you …"

"Command, command, command," Janelle taunted. "They thought not of asking nicely." She pulled not strongly at the restraints, as her eyes bled and her body trembled.

"She who by her humility and from the first moment of her Immaculate Conception crushed your proud head," Constantine read vindictively. "The faith of the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and of the other Apostles commands you."

Janelle's lips formed a gnarled smile, her red eyes glued to Constantine's, her teeth clenched tightly. "Too late, Constantine. As always." She began to bang her head against the back of the chair ruthlessly, caring not for – or purposely – injuring her body.

"Tie her head back," Constantine said, but Dean was way ahead of him, having already moved behind her.

Dean grasped her head, yanked it back, and wrapped the leather strap around it.

Janelle tilted her head back toward Dean. "A sad thing it is when no one will tell you the truth because they're afraid of what you might do."

Dean's brow creased. "What are you talking about?"

"The blood of the Martyrs and the pious intercession of all the Saints command you," Constantine continued. Janelle's eyebrow arched and her eyes narrowed as she felt him drag his finger beneath her hand, bringing it up in front of her.

Her breath left her in a quick puff upon smelling copper. "_Stigmata_."

Constantine grinned and traced the cross onto her forehead in her own blood. Janelle wailed incredibly, her skin burning, smoke rising from her head. "Cursed dragon, and you, diabolical legions, we adjure you by the living God, by the true God, by the holy God, by the God who so loved the world that He gave up His only Son, that every soul believing in Him might not perish but have life everlasting."

Though the doors and windows were closed and locked, wind slowly picked up within the church; fluttering Dean's wifebeater and hair, waving Constantine's necktie and black jacket.

"You can't kill me, John," Janelle teased, trying harder now to rid herself of the barriers around her limbs. "You kill me … you kill her."

Dean wanted to argue this fact – that he wasn't going to allow Constantine to kill Janelle – but he couldn't. It was better for her to die than to live with a demonic spirit inside of her. He would, however, be a liar, as he'd told her she'd make it through.

"Stop deceiving human creatures and pouring out to them the poison of eternal damnation; stop harming the Church and hindering her liberty!" Constantine yelled over the howling wind.

"Ugh, what's that smell?" Dean gagged, grabbing his shirt and holding it over his nose and mouth. He immediately recognized the stench as that of burning human flesh.

Constantine cocked his head to the side. "That'd be you, wouldn't it?" he said to Janelle. "Starting to get a little uncomfortable in that body, I bet."

"I'll take you all with me," Janelle hissed, her voice roaring between dynamics.

"Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit, enemy of man's salvation," Constantine read.

Janelle's hands were bleeding uncontrollably; red pools of blood circling her feet and nearing those of Constantine's.

"Salvation!" Janelle bellowed. "_Salvation_!"

Constantine smirked, leaning one hand on Janelle's wrist, his face closing in on hers. "Stoop beneath the all-powerful Hand of God; tremble and flee when we invoke the Holy and terrible Name of Jesus, this Name which causes hell to tremble," he whispered.

"Hell will never tremble at the name of your savior," Janelle grumbled. "Hell will tremble in joy when we have your soul, John Constantine." Her head snapped in Dean's direction. "And yours. And your brother's. And your father's. You're all damned."

"Lookin' forward to it, sweetheart," Dean said wryly.

Janelle smiled and turned back to her Exorcist.

"Name to which the Virtues, Powers and Dominations of heaven are humbly submissive." Janelle's body shook ferociously as sweat poured from her gray hairline. "This Name which the Cherubim and Seraphim praise unceasingly repeating: Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord, the God of Hosts!" He pressed the Cross on the cover of the book to her forehead. "Get out!" he screamed.

Janelle's mouth opened and the red bugs Dean had witnessed enter her so many days ago now exited her body. When the end came, the chair she was tied to flew backward – the legs squeaking on the floor – into the wall where it broke into several pieces. She fell to the floor, the arms and legs of the chair still cuffed to her.

"Janie!" Dean yelled, running toward her, nearly slipping in her blood. He fell to his knees next to her where he checked her pulse and breathing. "She's alive," he sighed gratefully.

Constantine huffed tiredly, loosening the tie around his neck slowly. He then bent over, swiping his fingers and the palm of his hand in Janelle's sacred blood, and headed over to Janelle and Dean. He dropped to one knee next to her and placed his bloodied hand on her stomach.

"In nomine Patris," he whispered, "et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." He swallowed hard.

"What are you doing?" Dean demanded. "She's not dead."

Constantine glanced at him. "No, she's not."

Janelle's body suddenly moved as if it were being dragged backward by an invisible force. A trail of blood stained her clothes from her stomach and down her right leg as Constantine's hand glided over. Her head met the wall and then she was pulled up, her feet eventually leaving the floor. Dean and Constantine watched in amazement.

"What's happening?" Dean inquired.

"Got me," Constantine muttered, not really caring or interested in what was happening to the woman as long as everything else was taken care of.

"Janelle?" Dean breathed. She was now nearing the ceiling.

A door slammed behind them, and Dean and Constantine turned to see Sam Winchester running toward them at full speed, possibly faster than Dean had ever known him to run.

"Sammy?" Dean said uncomprehendingly.

"Get down!" Sam shouted, and Dean complied by bending over and covering his head, leaving his back vulnerable. Sam knew this was what Dean would do.

Closing in on Dean, Sam stepped on Dean's back with one foot, using it to launch himself into the air toward Janelle. He grabbed a crossbar connecting the wall to the ceiling with his left hand and snatched Janelle's foot with his right just as she was about to glide across the ceiling. He yanked on her foot, her body falling into his arms, and he released the crossbar. He fell to the hard floor on his back with Janelle held firmly to his front, shielding her from any harm. He checked her pulse and respiration just as Dean had and found that she still maintained life. He turned his head slowly toward his older brother.

"Hey, Dean," he respired.

"Hey, Sam," Dean replied, his head lifting from his prone position. "Got some new tricks up your sleeve, huh?"

Sam shrugged. "You might say that."


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN**

Dean sat in the window of Janelle's room at Lovelace Medical Center in Albuquerque, New Mexico, gazing down at the parking lot below. It had been nine days exactly since Janelle had last spoken to him in the car on the way to Malcolm Rose's church. She now lay in a bed with IVs in her arms and bandages wrapped tightly around her hands. She was breathing on her own, but the doctors were unsure of her mental competency and whether or not she would ever wake up.

Sam had called Janelle's father almost immediately after arriving at the hospital, but Julie informed Sam that her father had fallen ill not too long ago, so none of Janelle's family would be there for her. Dean wasn't comfortable with leaving Janelle alone, and Sam understood. He'd give Dean his time because eventually, Dean would need to leave and throw himself back into his work to forget about everything that had happened.

"Are you sure you don't want to tell him?" Mercy asked, as she and Sam were headed back from the cafeteria with coffee for Dean.

Sam sighed. "I'm not going to tell him, Mercy. Dean doesn't need to know that Janelle was pregnant and the baby was possessed."

"But the baby was his," Mercy argued.

"There is no more baby," Sam said quickly. He'd made sure of that by asking the doctors to run a test; the results were negative. "If I told Dean about my vision of him and Janelle together and their baby girl being born already possessed by Elathan, he'll be pissed that I didn't tell him in the first place. And then he'll _hate me_ for making the decision to … _exorcise_ his unborn child without his say."

"Do you think he would have wanted to keep the baby knowing it would be evil?" Mercy asked.

Sam shrugged and shook his head. "I don't know. But I couldn't take the chance."

"What about you? How are you going to go on knowing what happened?"

"Knowing that I prevented Elathan from bringing Hell on Earth? I'll think I'll do just fine."

Sam walked away from Mercy, wondering angrily why she was even still hanging around. He'd only needed her to get him to the church using her speedy vampire abilities and now he was finished with her. He guessed she was worried about Dean, so why wasn't she nagging him?

"Got you some coffee," Sam told his older brother as he entered Janelle's hospital room. Janelle hadn't moved.

"Thanks," Dean returned, taking the Styrofoam cup from Sam and sipping the plain black coffee.

"Any change?" Sam asked thickly, leaning against the window beside Dean.

Dean miserably shook his head. "Nothing." He looked up at Sam. "So, how's that half-vampire, half-werewolf, half-Sammy thing workin' out for you?"

Sam sighed a laugh. "I'm still me, Dean," he said. "Just a little … enhanced, is all." Dean only nodded as he stared at Janelle. "Do you think it was the demon dragging her to the ceiling?"

"No."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because she's not what it usually goes after. She doesn't have any kids and I'm not … in love with her, and she's not in love with me." He looked at his brother. "I don't think it would target her for the hell of it." He watched Janelle and shook his head shamefully.

"She's alive, Dean, that's what matters."

"And what quality of life does she have now, Sam?" Dean whispered cynically. "She's in a coma and she has no family here for her. If I were her, I wouldn't want to wake up, either."

Sam sighed. "She'll wake up when she's ready, Dean. She'll be fine." Dean looked at him. "You just have to trust me."

"Did you have a vision?" Dean inquired. "Did you _see_ her waking up?"

Sam reluctantly shook his head. "No," he responded regretfully.

"Then how do you _know_?" Dean hissed.

Sam shrugged. "I just do."

Dean stared at his kid brother a moment before climbing out of the window, setting the coffee on the table beside Janelle's bed. "We're leaving."

"Dean, are you sure?" Sam probed.

His older brother ignored him as he lent down to Janelle's level and whispered something in her ear. He then soothed his fingers through her coarse hair, kissed her cheek, and then left the room without another word.

Sam huffed dejectedly and made his way toward the door. He wasn't going to acknowledge the _goodbye_ in the air, nor was he going to acknowledge Janelle's body, but he couldn't leave things this way. He hurried over to the bed, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her forehead for a long moment. She was warm, but still. Soft, but broken. Sam didn't feel responsible, but still a sort of commiseration lingered within him. He wanted to stay until she woke up, only it wasn't an option.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her forehead. "I'm sorry, Janelle." She didn't reply, not that he expected her to, and his back straightened.

Sam left the room and eventually the hospital.

---

Waiting patiently until the Impala was long out of sight, John Constantine invaded the hospital, asking not politely where Janelle Markem's room was located, and taking the stairs to the correct floor. He entered the room without a knock or a word and took a seat next to her bed. He placed his left hand over her eyes, closed his own, and whispered a quick prayer. Constantine then wiggled a finger beneath the gauze on her hand where he allowed it to be coated in blood, which he brought to her parted lips.

"Time to wake up, Janelle," he spoke nonchalantly.

Janelle suddenly gasped and choked, her head lifting from the pillow, her hands grasping the beige blanket covering her body.

"You have work to do," Constantine told her.

---

_The epilogue will be posted tomorrow._


	28. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

Dean hated snow. More so, he hated driving the Impala through snow. Classic cars just didn't do well in these weather conditions, but lately he didn't have anything better to do. No jobs were surfacing, Sam wasn't around anymore, and Dad had dropped off the map again. He was bored. That's what he told himself, anyway.

Parking Priscilla away from the jumble of cars near the front of the building in the parking lot, Dean got out, foregoing locking the doors, and headed for the front entrance. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked gingerly over the frozen ice. No need for a broken ass, he mused.

Dean opened the large wooden door as quietly as possible and stepped inside. He made no move to walk any further, deciding instead to hang in the back. He was never one for church or God. He was looking for something – someone – specific.

He looked through the sea of Southern church-goers and spotted the gray head near the front. _Janelle_. No one had answered the door at her house and he knew there was really only one other place she could be: church. Who wouldn't find God after the ordeal she'd gone through?

She was safe, and that was what he'd come to see for himself. She was safe and well and awake, for that matter. Dean felt himself smiling and nodding as he glanced down at his car keys.

"Take care of yourself, Janie," he whispered, glimpsing one last time at Janelle before leaving the church through the huge wooden door, which slammed this time behind him.

Janelle jumped and glanced over her shoulder toward the door, which was now closing. She thought maybe she recognized the presence back there, but didn't think too much of it, and returned her attention to Father Reese at the podium. She looked down at the fingerless black gloves Dean Winchester had given her and then she looked up at his father, John Winchester, sitting next to her. He glanced down at her and smiled warmly, fatherly, and Janelle wrapped her arm around his.

She didn't like who she was – who she'd become – but she was happy some part of Dean and Sam was with her to help her find her way.

---

_Thanks for reading. It's been a long year, but I'm glad I finally finished this. It's been viewed over 12,000 times and you have no idea how much I appreciate that._

_Also, I've decided I'm not ready to let Dean and Sam go, or Janelle, for that matter, so I'm writing a sequel. I know a lot of you are opposed to sequels and think stories should just be left alone, but there's a lot of things that were left unanswered in this story and a lot of places these characters could still go, so I'm going to write it._

**_Sequel Tidbits:_** "_What Is, and What Should Never Be". An apocalypse. Janelle's new job. Dean's trip to Hell where he will attempt to conquer the nine circles only to find out damning information about himself and his brother. A death. Appearances by John Constantine, Angel (and company), and others._

_I hope you'll stay tuned for the sequel!_


End file.
